Noah, lonely and bereft, Cast adrift with wives and sons. Of other folk, no more are left – These are the only ones.
But lo !, across the waves and foam Comes sailing forth on breezes fresh A vessel very like his own – The Ark of Gilgamesh !
This is an early poem of mine that features my patented exclamation comma (!,) which one day shall be combined into a single glyph to rule them all…Incidentally, my older self cringes at my rookie mistake of placing Gilgamesh himself in the other Arc when of course it was piloted by Utnapishtim. However, despite this, it remains the only poem of mine to ever earn me an income (£10), as recounted in the footnote to this poem.
I wonder, does it start with hoofbeats, Or the rush of flapping wings ? The hiss of gas ? A perfect fifth ? Or pistons, switches, cogs and springs ? That moment when the muse comes calling Bringing insight in her wake – She gifts her targets sparks and notions, Just to see what they will make.
And some folks are raptured, and some folks are seizured, And some folks will cherish and others will fear it – And I can but look on and ponder their wonder And try not to envy their genius spirit. And if I can’t join in their synching, Can’t speak in their tongues, or can’t waltz in their dance, At least I can urge them to write down their thinking, And not to leave mem’ry to chance –
So scurry and scramble to get the sprites pinned, That jingle or joke or invention or gen – For how many mousetraps are lost to the wind, When somebody spoke or for the want of a pen ?
I’ve long since stopped expecting the tap, Or the draught from angels’ wings I’ll never be a chosen one Who gets to feel such precious things For I am nothing transcendental – Too much static on the line. I’m not complaining – so it goes, I guess we can’t all be divine.
So I have to prod it, and I have I to wring it, And I have to plead with my brain for a vision – For I can but whittle upon some idea, And patiently bring it, I hope, to fruition. But keep chasing down on that inkling, And tinker about in the back of the mind – And most of all, keep turning up at the thinking – Ah well – back to the grind.
Your whispers and trances may get your thoughts firing, But mine just meander and dawdle and wend. My only damn flashes are sparks in my wiring – But maybe my work is as good in the end ?
The Assumption of the Virgin by Francesco Botticini
Trinity Cubed
Christians pray to three gods: Father, Son and Holy Ghost. But ’tis the Cath’lics have the most; “The Virgin’s ours” they like to boast, “We’ve Cherubs, Seraphs, Angel host. A God of Bread to feast upon, And wash Him down with bloody toast.” And then there’s Saints, the list is long, Like Seer Paul and Pete the Strong; But strangest yet amongst this throng: A Pope who cannot e’er be wrong.
The Brutal & Misogynistic Murder of the Tyrant-Enabler Jezebel at the Hands of the Baying Mob by Gustave Doré
A Rose by Any Other Name but This
Atheist parents do not breed Jezebels, Their daughters are precious, not pawns in a game. Atheist parents may mock what the Bible tells, But that is no reason to resurrect the name. It may sound pretty, and the Bible may teach slander, But why would any parent choose a stripper’s name to brand her ?
Atheist parents do not breed Jezebels, Their daughters are Marys and Sarahs and Janes. Atheist parents may not fear burning hells, But that is no reason for bully-bate names. It may sound pretty, but it’s home to tarts and brats: For we cannot name our children in the way we name our cats.
“The Kingdom of God is a mustard seed, The leastest of all of the seeds of the earth, From out which the greatest of herbs shall be freed, With branches so stout for the birds to find berth.”
“But Master, are then not the seeds of the duckweed, Or even the orchid, or poppy, or rue, Yet ever more tiny, yet too they succeed ? From dust on the breeze, so the wilderness grew. Whyfore is mustard so sacred ? If smallness is wanted, when all’s said and done, Then surely the Kingdom of God should be second to none ? To carpenters, all wood is worthy, But farmers know not ev’ry stem is a beam, And there’s more to croft than a prophet can dream.”
“Then look at the size of the mustard and poppy: The former grows three times the height of the latter. Within such a speck lies so giant a crop, see, And we should remember that, next time we scatter.”
“But Master, if increase in size is so vital, Then why not the mulberry, grapevine, or cane ? There surely are worthier plants for the title, For look at the growth of the poplar and plane ! Whyfore is mustard so sacred ? The not-tallest herb from the not-smallest seed. And surely the Kingdom of God is a tree, not a weed ? To fishermen, all land is constant, But farmers know not ev’ry bud will bare fruit – And there’s more to a plant than a leaf and a root.”
“But those other plants are not found in the garden – Their seeds are but sown by the wind, not the hand. And mustard grows tall and its branches will harden, So even the nests of the birds can it stand.”
“But Master, the mustard grows tall in late summer, And then, as an annual, each winter it dies. When nesters are building, this plant’s still a comer, And still till the fledglings have long filled the skies. Whyfore is mustard so sacred ? For any birds perching must cause it to quake. But surely the Kingdom of Heaven won’t tremble and break ? To parables, all things are symbols But farmers know not ev’ry shrub is a rose, And there’s more to a seed than the fact that she grows.”
In terms of the ratio between the volume of the seed and the volume of the plant it fell from, Jesus would be hard-pressed to better the Coast Redwood: Wikipedia gives the seeds a size of 4mm x 1mm (including wings – about four times longer than a mustard seed), and let’s say they are 0.5mm deep. Let’s be generous and assume they are perfect rectangles, so each will have a volume of 2mm3, or 1/500 millionth of a cubic metre. The tallest known tree today is Hyperion at 115m, though the most massive is Grogan’s Fault with a main trunk volume of 1084m3 as at 2014, and that doesn’t include the branches or roots (though who knows how one calculates such a thing). Let’s call it a 1000m3 – we therefore have a size increase of 542 billion times the seed that grew it !
However, Grogan has nothing on Pando, a grove of Quaking Aspens that are infact all clones sharing a root system. Wikipedia gives its estimated weight at 6 million kilos, and according to Penn State University the average green wood weighs 714 kg/m3, so 6 million kilos of tree has a volume of 4,284,000 metres3. Unfortunately, I cannot find an indication online as to the size of the seeds, but the US Forestry Service states that there are “very light, 5,500 to 8,000 clean seeds per gram”. If we take the lower figure, then that single Aspen seed which spawned Pando has put on 33 trillion times its own mass.
However, give omniscient Jesus his due, he surely knew that redwoods would not thrive in arid Canaan, and this was likely why he didn’t bring them up. However, Canaan contains both Aspens (albeit Eurasian, not Quaking) and their cousins Poplars (White and Black), and the King James Version mentions ‘poplar’ twice – once in Genesis 30:37 (the famous ‘goats staring at streaky rods give birth to streaky kids’ experiment), and again in Hosea 4:13. Some translations also change ‘willow’ for the archeologically-correct ‘poplar’ in Psalm 137:2. But…the seeds are often accompanied by hairs making them appear much larger. What about a more down-to-Earth comparison ?
I can find no statistics on the average weights of garden plants, but TheSeedCollection.com (which sells them) states that there are around 360 Black Mustard seeds/gram, and Wikipedia says that a gram of Poppy seeds will get you 3300 seeds (there is no mention of Poppies in the KJV, but there is archeological evidence that the Philistines introduced them – indeed maybe they even formed part of Isaiah 40:6’s ‘flowers of the field’). Therefore, each Mustard seed weights the equivalent of 9 Poppy seeds, so even though a fully-grown Black Mustard plant is 2 metres tall (Britannica) and a full grown Poppy only 1 metre (Wikipedia) – it’s hard to imagine that the Mustard weighs nine times as much (remember, they have hollow stems). Though based on the image below, they look about a quarter of the volume so maybe the mustard seeds are more dense ? Incidentally, Wolffia is a type of duckweed, including the world’s smallest flowering plant, so no wonder their seeds are so teeny.
The king awoke one morning And he couldn’t find his crown, So he rang out for his footman To bring forth his ermine gown, Then ordered for the palace To be hunted upside down – And if it were still missing, To send men upon the town.
His reason for such urgency Was really very plain, That if the king is crownless, Then he rule goes down the drain – For if he stands bareheaded How will peasants know his reign ? A king without a coronet Is thoroughly mundane.
Fetch it ! Find it ! Capture it and mind it ! All your heads are bloody shreds If someone has maligned it !
The soldiers rummaged ev’ry house, And prodded ev’ry nook. They barged upon the merchantfolk, And half their wares they shook Incase the prize was hid within, Exposing crown and crook. And if it weren’t, the goods were wrecked, So clumsy was their look.
They burst upon the womenfolk In most ungentle ways – Their conduct was improper, And their language coarse of phrase. They entered ev’ry schoolroom, Ev’ry salon, mill and maze. But still it was not gainedfast, And the town was all ablaze.
Search it ! Seek it ! Plunder it and wreak it ! All your eyes are filling pies If somebody should sneak it !
The aldermen and dowagers Were startled and incensed. These worthies sought an audience, Their grievances dispensed – But found the King uncaring Of the tumult he’d commenced. They left with bitter passion For the town to stand against –
“His majesty can issue Any ruling or decree, But that is all as naught to us Who choose to disagree. It’s time for him to realise He’s just our employee, And if we are unsatisfied, It’s time to set him free.”
Pounce him ! Pry him ! Prison him and try him ! All our souls regain controls If ev’ryone deny him !
The king awoke one morning With his royal head uncrowned. He spent that very evening In cells of harsh surround. He never understood it, How his luck could so confound. His coronet, in passing, Was to never be refound.
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat of thy bread For here all the days of thy life, And this is thy price when thou hearken instead Now unto the voice of thy wife. And the wheat thou shalt grow and shalt harvest and mill, Where’erso the oak-tree may thrive, Is fruit of the labours of farmers who till To better the grains they shall scythe. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat of thy bread, But sweet grow the grains in their ears – For whilst thou lay pampered, they fattened each head Since thousands and thousands of years.
photo by jacey666. Yes, I know it’s actually a jackdaw…
Ravencross
I saw a raven at a crossroads, perched Atop a rustic fingerpost. Now there, I thought, as she crowed and lurched, Is a raven being raven-most. With pretty hamlets beneath her claws And shepherd’s skies behind her jet, She guarded the lanes with portent caws Where the paths of chance and folklore met.
A siren may serenade – softly she sings, A banshee may let-out a climactic wail, An angel may hug with her feathery wings, A mermaid may wrap with her muscular tail, A harpy may shriek with her passionate lungs, A centaur may whinny her amorous cry, A gorgon may kiss with her two-dozen tongues, A faun-maid may stroke with her flocculent thigh.
But humans, ah, humans, the uppermost rungs, The strangest of lovers of all you could try.
Six limbs ? Not an impossibility, But why grow the lower four quite so stout ? In flight, they’re only dead weight of little good utility, And back on land, they’re never used for galloping about. For all the traveller’s tales told, It’s physics leaves the dragon cold.
It is a shame, but that is that – Don’t curse the laws that bring us light. There’s swarms of creatures to adore Far more than sphinx or manticore. The greatest wonder of the bat Is how they find their way at night. Don’t hope for dragons, save your wish To glimpse upon a dragonfish.
Six tons ? Not as heavy as some aircraft, But far too heavy without massive thrust – Birds can only fly because they’re lighter than the updraft, And when they’re not (like ostriches) they’re left down in the dust. For all the picture books we read, It’s physics kills the dragon dead.
It is a shame, but so it goes – Don’t wish for trolls or unicorns. There’s hordes of creatures just as nice As any roc or cockatrice. The greatest beauty of the rose Is knowing why it grows its thorns. Don’t weep for dragons, they’re just lies – Instead, let’s sing of dragonflies.
Rhyming Couplets 