it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Moloch sits alone on Ælfred's throne
Laughing, like a deathmask of a child
While clerks their full reports now filed
Thus he sits as one, he sits alone
Sardonic, of well tempered ironies
While not one of them willingly sees
The trail of slaughter, of sacrifice
As fire leaves no remain, no trace of blood
Bones then perhaps, were cast into mud
Sunk quietly while men avert their eyes
These small heroes of fair omission
And now they have made a fission
Where once the crown a center held
So these long knives once dulled by peace
Have now found their dark release --
No animals killed nor trees were felled
But still it was that Gehenna he brought
And made as nothing for which they fought
And slept, and while they slept so sound
Their countrymen against all odds
Let in strange men and their strange gods
An army that must have shook the ground
And yet blindfolded by their words
Long they slept, and little they stirred
Now wake to the odor of a sacrifice
But he requires the body and the soul
No mere abuse will make him whole
And a just revenge; as cold as ice
On those silent, on those who knew
Will please him more, when he is through
For old Kronus must have his due.


it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
The pulse of things is stopping
If you can hear the sound between
The roar - both grandiose and mean
As though listening to the sea is dropping
A coin into a well as deep as the moon
Is far - wishing on the sound, a boon;
Cleft somewhere in the abyss of twain
As narrow as the edge of a dime
As the present is to the eye of time --
With a song sweet as medicine in refrain
And a noise that has no pattern at all
A beat, slight, might be heard to fall
Utterly unheard, but felt in some way
Is its sound real or but a wish failing
A request made by those dead and ailing
A hope against all hope - so then I say
This rhythm -- but our heartbeat dropping
The pulse of things is stopping.



it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/scott1723/6181608249In the direction of the sun
Ever setting, there is but one
way found – down; and fate
Refuses to reciprocate
Though he say not ‘kismet’
Refuse hitsuzen and yet
If starship goes not wind nor lee
It goes West: burning into the sea.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
Stupid Outside Monsters In


The Husband's Song

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
Though you style yourself so plain
I saw right through your little game
Long before you ever knew
You hid yourself quite well it's true
But a curling, caught, of the lips
Less than cautious swinging hips
A subtle joy caught in the hair
Softly it fluttered in the air --
Do they judge me a shallow one
Who does not believe in any fun
Because I caught truth in your eye
When they had bought a pretty lie?



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Where belief ends there is nothingness
He who pretends this is not reason
Does he intend for more than a season
To loose belief once bound from the abyss?
Surely belief has ended for each in kind
Faith is spent and time is out of mind
It is but reasonable then only to hope
That good may come or the source of good
And that bare necessity obey as it should
And would end darkness in which men grope
Blindly, I mark, as born without sight
Those who are familiar to the night;
I tell you wherever they turn is death
Though a parable would learn them true
That they perish if they cannot pass through
But while it is they still have breath
They will be right to curse modernity
Though with sight they cannot see;
And rail against the degenerate things
Ugliness, hatred, the perverted mind
Lawlessness and all vice in kind
They can hope for belief, desire's wings
Might rapture them from deadly fire
Though belief can not for them transpire;
If they understood, then what would remain
Is to wait for light, as a mountain could
By rain and wind and fire and wood
Worn down flat, an uncarved plain
Yes! This necessity is true reason's span
But I am not a reasonable man.


The Whites of Their Eyes

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
My face grows weary in these days
We would love a cause to smile
To laugh that laugh without a style
To know a thing outside a maze
To forget a moment deception's ways;

Knowing at once some spare thing
Without a camera or microphone
But with the clear instrument alone
Known once as it was they used to sing
What cause of relief then would this bring;

We would like instead an honest war
For God knows we have prepared one
With no new thing under the sun
And old truth come, forgotten lore
And forgetting what our lies were for;

Am I beyond man for this admission
That we cannot agree, although we know
This self-same truth, and very slow
We grasp our steadfast opposition
We know we need not ask permission;

To know that it is still man you fight
And your fight is not misunderstanding
He and ye are not less man in landing
Blow upon blow as you face aright
The one you strike and drive to flight;

Do not despair that your schemes must fail
Do you truly rejoice in your broken state
Can you altogether never seek to retaliate
You have not understood at all, in this you ail
When death appears, man too must wail;

But know that when from sleep we arise
You who have brought this sleep upon us
Will you forget then what your glory was
Will you remember it beyond your lies
When you see it flashing in our eyes?



Lollypop Stick Sword by Jessica C
it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Principle of annihilation, the edge of creation
The mandate of heaven, the might of man
The instrument of slaughter; the ward of humankind
Dividing between true and lie, rank and station
The weapon of peace, emblem of forever war
A most perfect balance and yet always more
For such a thing we have no word
But because of this, we call it Sword.


The Homeless

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Under the shadow of the great ones
Sleep gently, though you do not know
Where you will be the day after tomorrow
Lay low, below blazing words and guns
Which burn with unelemental fire
And the terror pulse upon the wire;
O man, are you but the only one wise
Knowing not how to labor or spin
To explain to you, who could begin
The web of impossible truths and lies
Spun by men for men and all their sons
Under the shadow of the great ones?


The President's Speech

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
The tin god comes, like an unlit lamp
A thing of bronze, but awaiting his cue
And perhaps come to life, to blink, to move
The mechanical Turk; of Kenyan stamp
A man of no small talent and poise
Repurposed to generate our noise
Did they say once - that he would save
Forbid it! But the crowd raves and roars
That smooth baritone; the emotion soars
Walking forsooth with a genteel wave
Into a hall of ten-thousand traps
But the audience loves- the people claps!
Dreams of his father, of another world
Where Old Karl hadn't brought forth amain
An army destined to be a stain
Of blood; the reds their flag unfurled
Was murder first of body then soul
Fill the cup then, fill it full--
With each subtle lie, the people require
Wink at the men with the burning bomb
Then complain with your old aplomb--?
Your strength now it may seem to retire
The handlers prod and twist the clamp
But the tin god comes, like an unlit lamp.



Poor Mountain by Donnie Nunley

it is addressed thusly:

A vision
it reads:
There in weeping August I saw
Not restrained by custom or law
- and a slight was given us there to say
We might have had another ending
As if this was from us thus sending
And not yet another turn of the day
To forget we but respond in this state
Long gone was our turn to initiate;
- a vision of the mourning gods
Makers of decision, judges all
Standing before their judgment wall
Marking points and counting odds
And the heaven was unstill with fission
The unseen dense with troubled vision
- and still they say, as their fingers wag
We darkened the sun, bringers of darkening
Not to the heavy weather harkening
Because you remember it, curse the flag
Because they made it what it was not
Were these the laws for which we fought?
- but their hands waver, it doesn't add up
Who is in the Chair? Who is in control?
Had a shadow from the room then stole
They search for the one who shared the cup
But even the devil is there to accuse
Whose game is this then to lose?
- not black or white, but the impossible gray
noise, pure noise distorting all thinking
was by it even the sun's eye blinking
"Winter comes", and what beyond it lay
Not restrained by custom or law
- there in weeping August I saw.



Rainbow by Baldur McQueen

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
In that place, where the seas rage
And rise; and this primordial fearing
Remembers something appearing
In the skies; forgetting every stage
Of man's demise, his own despise
mistaken for flesh before God's eyes;
Remember mildly that ribbon flying
As a banner of promise, a covenant
An every-color thing well meant
Thought to be, or were we but trying
Ever poorly not to quite recognize
What in its soaring it now implies?
If we fear the sea to swallow us whole
(as we ever do--) can it be sinking
Or is another thread in our thinking
That knows there is no second skull --
The rainbow! The waves did expire
And what remains? What remains is fire.


The Call from Athelney

The Ruins of San Franciso by Andrew McFarlane

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Defeated ones; such as we are
Left with no hope and no vision
But the fragments of old fission
Of an unreconstructed star
Each crying out that he knows
Where every broken part goes;
Those bright ones, their glinting face
Seen in part in part and whole
Of remorse and of regret full
Of memory but a fainting trace
We call out but they answer not
Or but utter to us the same thought
And the same warning, like a ghost
Wandering the halls of troubled house
We but an errant flea or frightened mouse
To make but a scene to our host
At night, the only ones listening, awake
To even hear for these spirits' sake
Our conjuration of dark memories
Presage what - a terrible, final fire
Or do we hear what else they inspire
These heroes, strange from across seas
That no defeat is final even for
Defeated ones, such as we are?


The Orator's Warning

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Image by weegeebored
Is society such a mass of thread
That you may pull it apart
And rearrange it as you wish
As if it were dead; if it were dead
Would you see this living spark
Course the stubble of your wish
By family, faith, freme -- fed?


it is addressed thusly:
A recognition
it reads:
The morning sings and
  as it sings the endlessly unfolding
world appears
first in mists and then in
radiance faint and fleeting.
And as it sings it sings of
the loneliness of creating
(twilight's bitter blessing),
woven into the fabric of existence.
Then more urgent it sings
of hope's beginning
with glossamer forms appearing
until the cutting edge of sunlight then
Triumphant color floods the world
and shouts in all the colors of the spectrum
its love resplendent.


Five Rings

Empty... by Thomas Leuthard

it is addressed thusly:

A vision.
it reads:
First came Earth; firm standing
The body which they loved, strong
And tall the mountain, and long
Its reign, its ways demanding;
Then came Water, clear and bright
Wore earth down with soul, drawing
Boundary and mark, thus awing
And ruling and muddy despite;
Fire was next, quicksilver burning
The intense mind with order made
By searing light, though was forbade
Its magic won by strangely learning;
And last Wind came, to blow out flame
Shifting around itself, nerves twitching
All of its sudden litanies bewitching
Wore all down by self to same;
But Wind fed Fire and they are lacking
But to burn evermore, as Wind blows hard
Fire burns high and higher, Earth scarred
And Water is poison from their attacking;
But I am Void;  a topography of null
A transparent pill, a dark notation
An empty train at the final station
I did not come, for I was here all
Along; even empty Wind was flowing
Through me, from me coming,
To me -- going.



it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
The test of our mettle is such
A burning, a breaking, a falling-down
Fast, blind at the wheel of time
Without a sound; without a sound
Crashing in space we shall surely drown
In nothing, caught in the crime
And without our foot on the clutch.


The Whale's Song

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Deep inside, the perpetual wave
Sounds around us, a seeping wall
And still we wonder through it all
Are we where no man may save
Wave under wave, in the great deep
Where all oldest secrets sleep?
But we are comforted by its roar;
A torrent of pressing deep against
A womb of earth; an eyelike fence
Of the clouds weeping evermore
Cloud under cloud, call to rest
Without a snore the waking best;
And we dream a dream of blue
Azure which has dim indigo
Held within, and melancholy go
To the heart of azure's deepest hue
To the sea then, grave under grave
Deep inside the perpetual wave.