At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away:
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below;
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred ****** to work the ship and to fight,
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.
"Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set."
And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet."

Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed,
Thousands of their ****** made mock at the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delayed
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed.

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud,
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day,
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went
Having that within her womb that had left her ill content;
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand,
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears
When he leaps from the water to the land.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame.
For some were sunk and many were shattered, and so could fight us no more -
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

For he said "Fight on! fight on!"
Though his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be dressed he had left the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
And he said "Fight on! fight on!"

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting,
So they watched what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maimed for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,
"We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory, my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
We die -does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner -sink her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

And the gunner said "Ay, ay," but the ****** made reply:
"We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives.
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow."
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do:
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!"
And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
But they sank his body with honour down into the deep,
And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,
And away she sailed with her loss and longed for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags,
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shattered navy of Spain,
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags
To be lost evermore in the main.

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man's dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.

A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and ***** seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!

With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
   Freedom.

Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.

Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it's Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it's the U.S.A.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
        ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL--
        ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
        WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS--
        AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
        AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
        NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
        TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
        WITHOUT THAT OTHER'S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
        BETTER TO DIE FREE
        THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.

With John Brown at Harper's Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
   Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
    Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, ****** and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.

America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."

America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don't be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don't be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
        ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
        NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
        TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
        WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
        BETTER DIE FREE,
        THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
   FREEDOM!
     BROTHERHOOD!
         DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!

A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
     Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
     KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!

They are sailing
at high tide,
the galleons.
As clouds break
on the pink
evening mantle,
and the wind
purses toward
the waists of trees,
the galleons reef
sails and draw off
into curtains of surf.

That was the day
you told me to meet you
by the split rail fence.
When I got there,
all I found were squares
of black grass
and a moon
as white as a lie.

i asked my god for rest
and in pagan desperation
he gave me apolaki
god of the sun and war
i mistook him for seraphim
God struck me down
with the force of a thousand spaniards
reaching my country's once untouched shores

your land had a god of the sun and war
before they pinned you in virginal grace
your country wanted you to see the sun
and remember war was not for the bloodthirsty
for your people it was god's will

i asked my god for love
and in carnal frustration
he gave me anagolay
goddess of lost things
i mistook her for a saint
archangels unsheathed their swords
celestial eyes filled with rage

your land had known loss
long before you did
your country had known loss
long before love had made it known
you will find yourself again

i asked my god for light
and in familiar search
he gave me tala
goddess of stars
and i stopped seeing them as stained glass figures
i no longer saw my banished gods
engulfed in the power of rome

my land saw the stars before God's first day
"let there be light" He said and apolaki bowed in recognition
tala greeted Him with a smile and promise
anagolay laughed in joy and gratitude
my country had gods before wooden crosses
before the galleons carrying friars came armed in holy water
before my archipelago had become a sprawl of cathedrals

now i'd like to think my God and bathala smile down on me
saint jude conspiring with lakapati
cherubim sleeping in diyan masalanta's arms
i'd like to think the gods are at peace
i'd like to think they would only want me to remember
to never forget every disfigured reflection of the almighty

Thy will be done.

it isn't all black and white
the choke-hold of history

shades of red and brown
paint the scenery, too

the documented imagery
forgotten in the fray

a little big horn playing mournful
songs as the cavalry marches on
to the tune of galleons and guns


no passport required
when the port was young

émigré and immigrant
displacing native sons

who also once were pilgrims
breathing in the sun.

Madness round about us and no one knows,
Memories of ember fired trust,
Watch them, these entombed brains,
Piano sonata, violin concerto, torn notes,
Who are the ******, them or us?

Madness, insanity, absurdity, irrationality,
Craziness, dementia, stupidity, psychosis,
Senility, fanatical, deranged, mental,
Foolishness, hysterical, delusional, frenzied,
Psychotic, maniacal, lunacy, neurosis, disordered,
Take these notes and from them weave
A hymn to chaos.

And so here it begins...

Bee bar locked up honey sting hive,
For them that have wept grains of sand warm yet wet,
In that dark distant horizon mountain bark,
Onion quake cuts splash serrated blade,
Insanity uncorked frothy so seeps humanity.

Orphan sky spits pregnant daggers drip,
Wing plucked harpies never will sing,
Dead sailors salted lie in silken mermaid beds,
Schooners sail the scattered chase round the horned tail,
Skulls bubble air sockets freed from cloven trouble.

Roads webbed spiralled butterfly miles of bottled lies,
Venom harvested acres baked into medicine,
Undone years plunged inside veins popped into mouths,
I loved you know,
No, no, you did not know for all eternity.

Hope filed cabinet all lost my ghostly dancer,
Rooms silver sunned windows seared,
Playground memories brim on the haze,
Smoke fogged pipes puffed clouds,
Asleep amongst trees over green glass grass blades frost.

Hold fingers to hands strange,
Notes ring around maze tower of desires,
Low sands but tides rise and torrents break or fall,
Alone we enter same goes exit,
Midnight clowns ****** into dreamscapes.

Creased rage silver ironed steam brains,
Unfurl flags red and painted war pain,
Impotent artful eye with sedated lust,
Boil drum not loud remember to listen,
Say less, speak more, silence best of all.

Galleons crawl upon the divided cloud docks,
Look there, point to starboard land ahoy,
Deep bosomed tear slaked shore,
Sense mixed universe reduced to a tick-tock,
Never shall it stand, withered time no glance past.

Adios, fare thee well, goodbye, auf wiedersehen,
Tongues weep, eyes talk, observe tender songs silence,
Contradiction philosophises perplexing paradoxes pure,
Marbles, one and all, drown in the air,
Narrow, so narrow are those who judge all.

Sin to fear and all is terror called,
Wanton doves warble tunes broken,
Afraid I was, too wrapped in fear coiled I,
To know fright and bride forsake,
Never were holes deeper dug.

Reason not the rhythm nor rhyme,
Pandora, oh Pandora, what hast thou done?
Stare upon thy casket coffin spread-eagled,
Fire stealer Prometheus universal milk burns,
Gorgon Medusa snake dancer charmer seducer.

Silent bones drum against skin, wake up fool!
White winged dove blood red beak suite,
Humbled blood sore butchered vows vain,
Then as now silent partner is all,
Meant so much more you were.

Rapier, pistol, kiss and hold, to my temple place,
Slash, bang, smack and rake, let matter escape,
What uncharted continents we all are,
Walls rise hand bricked high over hill and sky,
Dilated screams of the civil dead no wall can cage.

Tears glitter sky to earth,
Seeding jewels amongst dung natural,
Fountains colour horizon wide,
Sanity transfigured stitched, haggled,
Eternal slaughter diamond edged sold.

Torquemada burrows rib cracked skin blood,
Skeleton tomb dust for leprosy romance,
Wail now poor Quasimodo tongue-tied,
No one to keep company but rat bones,
Unborn, forgotten, locked and barred.

Hush there! Let there be deafening silence,
Lie, cuddle snuggle, caress dark death,
There, still now, wipe away sleep,
Space time galaxies born in minds beyond measure,
Planets die, titans die, you and me we all certify.

Madness here! She creeps into bed mine,
Yours too! Oh, how richly embraced we,
Paris Town cellars breed inmates,
Lice tea stirred drunk and promises sung,
Escape none, trapped all, sky above and death underfoot.

This asylum madness no wall can hold,
Floats into night skies and into ears young,
Oh no, goodness no, you cannot out keep it in,
Destroy the house of madness you cannot,
Dost thou fear thyself knave? ‘tis merely a jest most musical,
All the chords sprinkled peppered and cast asunder.*



©Rangzeb Hussain

The first love for me
It was always the sea.
Being lovingly caressed
Being slowly undressed
By the deep oceans call.
Being caught as I fall
Into Kingdoms below.
Where I flow
Into gleaming ravines
Into Davy Jones dreams.
And on the network of tides
I slide into rides
And slip into waves
Of mermaids and slaves.
I glide upon stallions
Sail in lost galleons
And float in with the breath
Of those swallowing death.
As the seafarers are pounded
As schooners are grounded.
And sink into the deep
In silence they keep
The first love for me
It was always the sea.

John Smallshaw 2011.

The first love for me
It was always the sea.
Being lovingly caressed
Being slowly undressed
By the deep oceans call.
Being caught as I fall
Into Kingdoms below.
Where I flow
Into gleaming ravines
Into Davy Jones dreams.
And on the network of tides
I slide into rides
And slip into waves
Of mermaids and slaves.
I glide upon stallions
Sail in lost galleons
And float in with the breath
Of those swallowing death.
As the seafarers are pounded
As schooners are grounded.
And sink into the deep
In silence they keep
The first love for me
It was always the sea.

John Smallshaw 2011.

A bold pirate
vanquished King Phillip’s hapless galleons,
bathed himself in gold peso coins
manic fingers feverishly caressing the lucre.

Mindless with greed
he sailed into rough waters
where great whales watched
as gales ripped the grommets
that held the cords that secured the sails
and the great sheets collapsed
like canvas shrouds.

Still the pirate caressed each coin
ignoring the rogue waves
oblivious to the grand schools of whales
gathering around.

Singing in chorus
the great behemoths mused
patient in their knowing
man’s treasure destiny is always
on the floor of the deep ocean.

The captain sank with his ship
his pockets laden with lustrous gold
and his silk shirt billowed in the current
like a flag announcing his descent
to a place where he could not breathe
and nothing could be bought
and the whales slaps their flukes
on the water’s surface
in thunderclaps of applause.

I

          Aspiring to reach the solar rabbit hole eclipse
                  --climbing up the well,
                                            the photon test tube
                                      sodden and crusted on the outside
                  by angsty
                                adults
       snorting obsession
             through The Manhattan Project straw.

                    The pirate boy wanted to be named
                           Skip--so determined Alice named him,
                                    Skippy, conqueror of blueberry mucus
                 --he reminded her of sidewalks
                         she found far in the misty woods
--no one walked
                      the unexpected like                                           him.

          Each placement of a pore: a bat cave
                                                       a depressed skull
                                                       a hollow exploit
                                                       a lame *** joke
                                                       a mildew plop

Almost certainly this cadaver matryoshka doll
would be human by the time
the two runaways
were born again                               Hallelujah! The dish breaker is crowning again
                                                           back to the galleons, rotting awkward candles.

               "Leave what is human                                       in
                                                                                            inhumane
                                                                                            places." the well speaks.
          Skippy tears the corners of his lips
          to his ears. Alice turns her temple to the sharpest part
                                                                            of the monumental
                                                                     test tube
                                and cracks her childhood back to the bottom
                                                                               --back to Euphoria. light poles open
                                                                                  up faces and throw their lights to the ground.
Both of the thrift store
lovers continue to climb--ripping off purchases
                   to the beggar's tin cup.

II*

   Severed hearts beat without metaphor
          as the empty vessels that hold them.
Spines sing of freedom like centipedes
                      facing fan blades.                                Pirate boys mock the smoker's language
                                                                      of mutiny.

Devalued skin,
                                        ***** armor
casted,          
                          lowered,
   teased, by the cadence
            of tumbling blood.  Marking territories other brother's can smell

                  Obediently, we see what
       gods are doing to them. They're paying
for drawing the different suits of God
   on the cave wall.            Hit jobs--vacuum spoils,
                     sucker punch postage stamps
              --revenge from a peaceful creator
  forcing the two to climb/climb/climb
           back to a speck
                   where dandelions grow
      from the revolution fetus and graphite,
& tongues, & lips, & nerves, & veins &
wolf spiders pour down/red matter clusterfucks.

(Fargo was sad. He said,)



''I was a helmsman some time ago; '' Gian asked him, ''what happened? ''
''It's a long story; I'm an honest man; Geraldine trusts me
With her confidences; I had saved the women who had trusted
Me, except Bella who died before I could save her; she



(Fargo continued,)



Died in the peace of the Lord; '' Hector said, ''God's will for us is good.''
Abseil said, '' Maybe I wouldn't have been able to use my hands
Without your help; you're a good man, but you're little understood.''
''When I wasn't able to do the good things, I've made some good plans.''



(Ismail said,)



''We can do small things with great love; you hated the pirates.
Sometimes, being too passionate can be a bad thing; the lack
Of control is filled with passion; I see rightly in your iris.''
''When I was on the shore, I saw a ship and my hope came back.



(Fargo continued,)




I had to swim and ask for help; I've found three drunken men,
Who were sleeping on the deck; I've entered the captain's cabin
And I've found some documents demonstrating that they robbed ten
Ship passengers; I've heard about robbing on the galleon.’’



(John said,)



'' And how did you deduce that the ship belonged to the pirates? ''
Fargo answered, '' I've found the papers and the treasure
That belong to me; '' Brisbon said, ''Show me these documents! ''
'' A letter is sent to Fargo Escalante, Cantabria, for sure,



(Fargo continued,)



By Francisco Cerda along with some jewelry and money-
A payment for a service; I had waited for it to solve
My financial problems; then, I took a job; '' ''It's mighty funny, ''
Said John; '' My fortune is in my house because I fight to evolve.''



(Suaram asked Fargo,)



Why did you get a job to work on a carrack while knowing
To survive on a galley so well? '' '' As a sailor on
A carrack, I could do difficult navigation during
The storms; '' ''Freddy used to tell me sailing stories at the dawn, ''



(..said Sam, Brisbon replied,)



''He trusted me while sending me in the ports to hire the sailors.
Then, I've controlled the work of the crew on the ship; '' Sulim replied,
''He needs all our help; '' Gian said, '' while sailing, we will be failures
If we don't communicate each other; it is not in pride



(Gian continued,)



To learn how to correct the mistakes; when the ship is broken,
We sink; '' John said, '' we were hired to do many jobs because
Freddy didn't have enough money; '' ''when the fire was smokin',
He lost everything; the fatigue struck us with its claws, ''



(Replied Sam. Suaram said,)

''We have been too exhausted to fight for life; we could all die.''
''Gino, Nico, and Dino died; I could become invalid, ''
Said Abseil; Sam replied, '' you're saved, 'cause God is above the sky! ''
''Who pays us when we can't work? '' Asked Gian; his frowning face was pallid.



(Cosma replied,)



'' When you don't work, you're starving to death; '' Ismail said,
''Fargo had been persevering until he found a safe place.
He's a fighter and an example to us all; he's our head.''
''He should check the kitchen equipment; for me, he's in disgrace, ''



(Said John; Fargo fell asleep and couldn't hear them. Hector said,)



''He rescued the women while asking God for forgiveness.
He used too many details while describing his adventures
And achievements; he has the sleeping pirate as a witness,
When he says that the documents belong to him; '' '' these letters



Said Gian and continued,)

Could belong to any person called Fargo; '' '' they used
The stranger's dogs to find him; I think it's about money, ''
Said Sulim, '' He brought two galleons and soldiers; I'm confused.
He's a powerful man having some secrets; '' ''Don't be funny!



(Replied John, but he became meditative and continued,)



The women love Fargo; '' ''he should inform the authorities
About the documents, '' said Gian; Sam replied, ''I think he did it
And he received their protection; '' '' he has secret priorities, ''
Said John, '' it's not easy to be honest, but I have to admit



(John continued,)



That I do anything for money except stealing; ''
Sam said, '' It's pleasant to live in piracy and sad to be
A victim of it, 'cause it means the loss of any feeling.''
''I am human as long as no human loss is known in me, ''



(Concluded John.)
(The next day, Geraldine and Frederick tried to convince Fargo to tell the authorities that he had been a pirate, but Fargo said that he had played only a game to take back the treasure, which had been stolen by the pirates.)

(...to be continued...)

Poem by Marieta Maglas

some days i write
rafts and barks,
kayaks and corricles.

some days, a mere log,
set hopefully upon the water.

some days, dories and yachts
pinnaces, sloops, ketches and tugboats

on rare occassions,
great two and three masted ships,
schooners and galleons
filled with treasure..

more often scows, punts
and barges,
work man like and useful,
but not alway pretty

all painstakingly,
crafted...
with planks of words
nailed together with punctuation...
and caulked, with my soul...
sanded down by thought
polished, oiled and varnished,
with love...

then i set my sails,
my inspiration,
to the mast of poetry

and push off....
into the great white yonder....
hoping my xebec...my catarmaran, my dinghy...
my log...
will find a fellow waterman....
sailing, on this...
the ocean of words.

Our good books tell us
Christ walked on the water
but that God was brought
to the New World on galleons,
so I ask you, wise ones, teachers
and preachers of History,
how it came to be that the Son
didn't require a boat like the Father,
and how the hell you managed
afterall to get things so backwards
when the soldiers and priests
kissed the the ground and walked
on God's children around them.

You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.”
“Yeah,” said , “but you, unlike me, are a ***.”

"You're dead "
"Funny, you'd think I'd have stopped walking around"

So light a fire!
Yes... of course... but there's no wood!
HAVE YOU GONE MAD! ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT!

"How much for me?"
"5 galleons."
"I'm your brother"
"10 gallons!"

THE SEA

So vast, so merciless, yet so graceful.

What secrets do you hide in your mystic depths?

Where the waves roar on wasteland shores

And the ****** sands are still as white as snow



Ancient galleons lie deathly quiet

With tales of lost treasure deep inside its hull                                                

Sails ripped and savagely torn from the winds of long ago

Forgotten mariners still sail their ghostly ships

never to plunder the shores again.

                                                                           BY LAZA O9

The ship had left the port two hours before Geraldine
Said, ‘’I feel that I'll never turn back here again! ’’
She passed through the waiting line formed to use the latrine.
Suddenly, she heard a thunder in that rush of rain.


They had insufficient fuel, but enough food to last
Until they arrive in Çanakkale; the kitchen
Was quite large and Maya started to cook very fast.
''Maya, what smells so good? '' She said, '' the last fried chicken.''


Ibrahim was seventeen years old, and he helped them
Prepare the breakfast for the passengers; he entered
To bring a basket of coal and jet. ‘’It looks like gem.''
He took a coal into his hand to see if it was splintered.


''It is increasingly difficult to sleep at night, ''
Geraldine said; the ship was sailing forward slowly.
The waves were small, and a galleon came into sight.
It had the color of those waters being shoaly.


'Twas a commercial one sailing in the same direction.
A gust of wind ruffled her hair and snatched her blue bow.
The splashing waves with the rain drops were in connection.
That ship was sailing fast, but none of their sailors knew how.


Maya took the kettle of water coming to a boil;
Prepared bread with butter and cheese for the coming people:
Twenty passengers and fifteen sailors freed from toil.
The bells that rang were like those being in a steeple.


Suddenly, there was a bang as the ship might have hit a reef.
Frederick and Sam looked up seeing that the square sail
Deteriorated slightly in the wind, and the chief
Asked Sam to repair it.''There're two techniques that never fail.''


''Do you see that ship in the distance, on the horizon? ''
''It must be a Spanish galleon bringing *******
Laced with wine, ''said Brisbon whose face was wrinkled and wizen.
''They sail across the Pacific Ocean from New Spain.''


''They're longer, lower and narrower, with a square tuck stern
And have snouts projecting forward from the bows below
The forecastle level.'' They forced their eyes to discern.
The sun rose making the water have a golden glow.


'' These galleons are fast and very maneuverable.
They enable the ****** to sail closer to the wind, ''
Said Fargo.''Old ship's problems are innumerable.''
Freddy said, '' a thought to buy a new ship is in my mind.''

( to be continued...)
Poem by Marieta Maglas

THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT
      RICHARD MILHOUS NIXON

( for John Smith )

It was...
Oct 5th - 1970.

A Monday.


The day had gone
from dry to drizzle to

wet.


It was the 278th day
of the year...only

87 days remaining
until the end of the year.

I knew I had to act now.
It was now...or never.

Time? I forget the time.
Time was standing still.

Huge clouds
menaced the horizon

impersonating an Armada
of Spanish Galleons.

Full sail ahead then.
I took a step into my future.

The smiling President drawing
nearer and nearer.

In Nass
the drenched crowed cheered.

In Newbridge now
flocks of children chase the car

like he was some
kinda Piper from Hamelin.

I kept a close eye on
the secret service

all dressed in the same suit
looking like clones

of one another
talking into their sleeves.

My gaze searches and settles
upon him

like the cross-hairs
of a ******'s rifle.

Sure he had called his setter
King Timahoe

after where his folks came from
another American looking for his roots

bolstering the Irish-American vote.

And now here he was
the man himself

in person
the 37th President.

Irish colleens dancing
upon a make-shift stage

in the square
of Kildare.

He's here oh so near
I can see the pores of his skin

a bead of sweat trickles into
that infamous Nixon grin.

Dare I do it now?
My hair falling into my eyes.

My mind flashes back to
1729

when his Quaker ancestors
fled the Emerald Isle.

Three centuries pass by in a second and
we're here

in the middle of
The Vietnam War

and he speaks of
"a passion for peace...preventing war...building peace."

Yeah yeah...sure sure!

Carpet bombing Cambodia
the famous Nixon duplicity

the "credibility gap" opening
between what he says and what he does.

Oh there are protests
he has 5 eggs hurlers.

"Splatsplatsplatsplat and splat!"
Only one near hit.

And one man protesting
the price of a pint

up'd( for the occasion )to
one shilling and jaysus seven pence.

What's the world
coming to?

School kids waving
their plastic( in slow mo )

American flags
on little plastic sticks.

I raise my flag.
I raise my...voice

shooting my mouth off
with a great shout:

'TRICKY DICKY! TRICKY DICKY!
WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN!"

Several secret service scowl.
My words hit him...Nixon frowns.

Character assassination.

Mr. McCann
aka "The Bicycle Man!"

curses me
in Irish.

After all he is
my Irish teacher.

D'anam leis an diabhal...Ó Diomasaigh!"
("Your soul to the devil...Dempsey!")

"THE TIME HAS COME TO CALL
A ***** A ****** SHOVEL..."

I yell as
I get a clip around the ear.

McCann holds his hand
over my mouth.

Then suddenly Nixon
is no longer

there.

The hurled words
disappear into the air.

Us school boys
***** damply back to double Maths.

The De La Salle
Academy looming up before us.

Mr. McCann
hoovers near.

I cover both
my ears.

But he only tousles
my hair.

"Ahhh mo amadán beag cróga!"
( "Ahhh my brave little fool!")

"Maith an bhuachaill...maith an bhuachaill!"
( "Good boy...good boy!")

He grins.
Slips me a sixpence.

I sing the new Led Zep
only released that day.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Being only 12
I had done what had to be done.

My political life
had only just begun.

We shouted the things we wanted
The most on unguarded roof tops
Thought up things like new colors
New feelings
we lived like messy hand writing
like abstractions
our souls mosaic
we took things that electrified
our senses
we felt love more intensely
felt it like a ******
felt it like a magnificent burden
it wasn’t a lump in our throats
but a swollen yearning for the truth
like an inflamed tonsil
a piece of someone on our tongue
left from a kiss that we can’t seem to
spit out
a vibration in our teeth
telling us that this
this here is what it felt
to hold fire in your hand
and not regret it
never regret it
we burned with this for days
stayed up all night
drank coffee by the galleons
punched ourselves numb
coated our skins in alcohol
and linens
peeled off scabs from our lips
left there by words we never said
blank objectives
cleared our schedules
cleared our wasted minds intoxicate from pine
wine, girls with confidences and odd mirrors
of *******
we wanted winter to kiss us
leave us frozen but not that she already had
we wanted to remember like an old photograph
like a worn out stretch book
a L shaped couch left behind burned
like we did
there are tons of things we needed
but what we wanted was a good ******* a really
good *******
Something to keep away the suspense
The terror, the anxiety
the failure
we are tired of saying anything
cursing is our second language.
sarcasm is our first
and a blank page is our third
We’re speechless
We’re exhausted
We’re afraid
We’re old
We’re young
We’re tired
We’re loose
We’re *****
We’re yearning
For it
Whatever it is.

on the 20th of February 1987,
a young boy realised there was no Heaven,
***** by a priest he would trust with his life,
****** muddy tears as he cried out to Christ,

the pain and the shame twisted in him like a knife
harrowing and harrying the rest of his life,
the guilt and MORE shame-now he's the one to blame?
tyrannical abuse has put his soul in the frame

like Dorian Gray,his life is fading away,
like the thousands of others betrayed in the same way,
by authority figures with a license to abuse
who look on their sacred charges as toys to use
you seem confused,you've never seen it on the news?,
decades of abuse kids ***** and abused,
and the Nuns just as bad Girls treated like slaves,
innocent Babes buried in shallow graves



The grubby crimes committed by a small proportion
from child abuse to forced slavery and abortion
the conduit to heaven is a broken kaleidescope,
grubby Cherubim Satanicus removed all hope. rpt x 2

Cry til you have cataracts, modern day Cataphracts
trapped in the catacombs by the evil Tesseract,
of twisted trappings of a dead gods worship,
the treasure Galleons turned out to be Warships,
loaded with diseased idols that turn on you like the Ark,
eyes burnt out by evil primeval sparks,
friendly dolphins were revealed to be Sharks,
as you slowly slip...ever further in the dark.

An intrepid outsider just visiting London,
Smitten, dazzled, by stunning illuminations,
From within a black cab, transporting me,
Not only weaving in present day airy streets,
But through stacked layers of storied history;
Some dark, treacherous and dastardly sinister,
Some light, celebratory and blithely triumphant.

On alighting from the Hackney Carriage,
(use of the word ‘carriage’ emphasising
a vivid stretch of a willing imagination.)
Museum of London beckons, offering pleasure,
Absorbing a tableau of delightful treasure,
Engaging unfettered thoughts and feelings,
Absorbing echoed cries of distant past eras,
Reminders of who we were and who we are,
Plunging archaic depths of vicarious displays,
Delicate fingers pressing upon vibrant pulses,
Within this webbed tomb of sanitised decadence.

In the coolness of encroaching night,
She slumbers, this anchored sprawling behemoth,
Suffering barking dogs, wailing of infants,
Sweet kisses of lust in cardboard-strewn alleys,
Screeches from a gaggle of hen-partying girls,
Screams from urban foxes, cries of a feral cat,
Curtailed by hurried rumble of clattering steel,
Train arteries busy pumping, wheel to wheel,
Ferrying the masses, crammed together classes,
Silent tubes exposing the numbness we feel,
At destinations end our tensions slyly unpeel.

Busy pedestrians skirting human detritus;
Shunning, vagabonds, tramps and thieves,
Amidst intermittent beeps of frantic car horns,
Squealing brakes and hot roaring engines,
She encompasses this amorphous miasma,
Towering skyward, snaking deep underground,
A blaze of coloured light, her own silent sound,
Inhabitants ‘pigged together’ the majority above,
But many, ignored and mistreated, surviving below,
Recognised, yet avoided; pretending, not to know.

Ancient sewers, dead rivers and even deader bones,
As far back as hunter gathers, howling and rutting,
Stout wooden pilings, now sodden river sentinels,
Whilst fire-blackened-pain from early conflagrations,
Blaze through time, ashes of destruction, no deterrent,
Romans plying trades in walled Londinium’, aye,
Emotional fingerprints etched into carved stone,
Resilient through Viking and Saxon times alike,
She survives, strives and thrives, our proud Lady,
Welcoming all, galleons, tea clippers and schooners,
Surging through her carotid artery, such spoils,
For the Big Smoke, tea houses and coffee shops,
Parks and palaces, bridges, tunnels and hovels,
Where now, the bedecked Town Crier? Is all well?

Brash glitz and glamour of threatened Tin Pan Alley,
Cultural elite behind facades of Doric columns,
While Roman foundations bold form, hold firm,
Twisting through the underneath, far beyond forever,
London crunches into the future, unstoppable,
Embracing humanity in a technological fervour,
She adapts, snarls, struts, proud and confident,
Akin to a sentient beast lapping up our needs,
Feeding desires, never judging, only accepting.

My very being saturated within this teeming city,
Of the city, I’m now enmeshed in the infrastructure,
Heart, mind and spirit willingly shackled, captivated by,
Cold agglomeration of steel, glass, concrete and stone,
Wreathed in transient emotions of warm flesh and bone,
Giving and breathing life unto all, even me,
An intrepid outsider just visiting London.

Sing me a song of a sailor gone wrong and I'll show you a song of the sea, where pirates walk planks with no thanks to the skipper, a crew full of cutthroats, Jack tars, jack the ripper and grog for the boys who sail wild on the main to nail them rich galleons, poor Philip of Spain.

Sing a song to me, sing me terror on the high sea and we'll all fall at Newgate, we'll swing for these crimes but these are the times of our lives.
Sing me a song of a sailor gone wrong and I'll sing you a song about me.

I had a flashback
Screams of Nervana
They were "those kids"
I was cirgarettles
The smoke blew in my face
I coughed
They exhaled
Silly me
Innocent me
The crazy one
The giraffe
The Ugly
Trapped between to worlds
Spinning out of control
In and out of galaxies
Solar systems
Dying stars
Lies were sweeter
Your just eating galleons of honey
By the third spoonful syrup becomes sickening
Caught in your throat
Run
Hide
Survive
Singing along to Zeppelin
I didn't the words
Laughing to that joke
Why did they notice me
Why was I worthy
To be with the
Poet
Singer
Dreamer
Writer
Lighter
Heartless
Soulless
Fearless
I was the stargazer
Who saw right through them
But loved them anyways
Now I walk this road alone

The wimpled scrolls recede....
The Authors of the braille sands
leave Northern marrow in their wording,
as sharp as Marram grasses bent
in keening subjugation....

Illuminated Sanskrit kelp,
infused with lust of fallen auras,
scrims the ****-green gartered breaks
now shaken from the glaucous mane,

while fleets of stippled cumuli,
( rain-chartered galleons of the West)
in line astern, prepare for war
beyond the deepened brim.

We,- the town-worn Pages- flutter,
drawn to trace the moiling hem,
to pour away into the water....

Salt-preened minions of the wind.

we were out on the porch
on an abnormally warm december night
with little glow florence off to the west
and he hadn't said much of what was there
because when he says nothing he is, with
his words laid out beneath pearl snaps
scrawled down his stomach--I would know,
i've seen his the tyrades plow, resentment
run thick, angry words rampant in his veins--

so he says nothing, and I know.

often times he is an open door and
i am the wind, in billows or gasps, rattling
hinges, finding holes, peeling paint or gathering dust
a spool of thread wrapped around stonehenge to remember
curls of foilage, svelte figureheads on galleons, I tell him

that I want to be with him and he says nothing. won't even look at me,
he's somewhere far away, drawn into penrose like a soul sunk in the
dirt, I say it again, and he tells me we should go inside


so i want to ask if that is all i am,
if that is what this is, if i am only good
for one night or two hours, in bits and pieces
limbs and moisture, if as a whole i am too much
but still lacking, if the warmth of my hips is
all that's needed but the grand luminance of a soul is out of the question?


But I say none of that, just follow him inside.
A hundred questions trickling down my spine, gathering in my femur, my calves, gusting into my lungs, I don't know how to be more than this and less, I'm opening up the cavity of my chest and pleading this

this is all there is.
I am all that I can be

a streetlight flickers as above
it the stars flicker, too
and below it someone's bic lighter
flickers. he flings a cigarette ****
into the storm drain.
whoever lives in the sewers
must feel awfully lonely right now.
someone's headlight is out:
an illegal asymmetry, a trick
enforced by the galleons of punk photons,
defined by waves (or particles) to ride upon
like the waves of sound that travel back and forth
between two angry motorists just laid off from work.
a new cigarette is pulled. what is this man blowing
away from his self and out towards the maybeinfinite undying
universe of unbearable light
sprinkling on him like rain that suddenly hits
a warm hornet-infested day?

THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT
      RICHARD MILHOUS NIXON

( for John Smith )

It was...
Oct 5th - 1970.

A Monday.

It was the 278th day
of the year...only

87 days remaining
until the end of the year.

I knew I had to act now.
It was now...or never.

Time? I forget the time.
Time was standing still.

Huge clouds
menaced the horizon

impersonating an Armada
of Spanish Galleons.

Full sail ahead then.
I took a step into my future.

The smiling President drawing
nearer and nearer.

In Nass
the drenched crowed cheered.

In Newbridge now
flocks of children chase the car

like he was some
kinda Piper from Hamelin.

I kept a close eye on
the secret service

all dressed in the same suit
looking like clones

of one another
talking into their sleeves.

My gaze searches and settles
upon him

like the cross-hairs
of a ******'s rifle.

Sure he had called his setter
King Timahoe

after where his folks came from
another American looking for his roots

bolstering the Irish-American vote.

And now here he was
the man himself

in person
the 37th President.

Irish colleens dancing
upon a make-shift stage

in the square
of Kildare.

He's here oh so near
I can see the pores of his skin

a bead of sweat trickles into
that infamous Nixon grin.

Dare I do it now?
My hair falling into my eyes.

My mind flashes back to
1729

when his Quaker ancestors
fled the Emerald Isle.

Three centuries pass by in a second and
we're here

in the middle of
The Vietnam War

and he speaks of
"a passion for peace...preventing war...building peace."

Yeah yeah...sure sure!

Carpet bombing Cambodia
the famous Nixon duplicity

the "credibility gap" opening
between what he says and what he does.

Oh there are protests
he has 5 eggs hurlers.

"Splatsplatsplatsplat and splat!"
Only one near hit.

And one man protesting
the price of a pint

up'd( for the occasion )to
one shilling and jaysus seven pence.

What's the world
coming to?

School kids waving
their plastic( in slow mo )

American flags
on little plastic sticks.

I raise my flag.
I raise my...voice

shooting my mouth off
with a great shout:

'TRICKY DICKY! TRICKY DICKY!
WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN!"

Several secret service scowl.
My words hit him...Nixon frowns.

Character assassination.

Mr. McCann
aka "The Bicycle Man!"

curses me
in Irish.

After all he is
my Irish teacher.

D'anam leis an diabhal...Ó Diomasaigh!"
("Your soul to the devil...Dempsey!")

"THE TIME HAS COME TO CALL
A ***** A ****** SHOVEL..."

I yell as
I get a clip around the ear.

McCann holds his hand
over my mouth.

Then suddenly Nixon
is no longer

there.

The hurled words
disappear into the air.

Us school boys
***** damply back to double Maths.

The De La Salle
Academy looming up before us.

Mr. McCann
hoovers near.

I cover both
my ears.

But he only tousles
my hair.

"Ahhh mo amadán beag cróga!"
( "Ahhh my brave little fool!")

"Maith an bhuachaill...maith an bhuachaill!"
( "Good boy...good boy!")

He grins.
Slips me a sixpence.

I sing the new Led Zep
only released that day.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Being only 12
I had done what had to be done.

My political life
had only just begun.

THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT
      RICHARD MILHOUS NIXON

It was...
Oct 5th - 1970.

A Monday.

It was the 278th day
of the year...only

87 days remaining
until the end of the year.

I knew I had to act now.
It was now...or never.

Time? I forget the time.
Time was standing still.

Huge clouds
menaced the horizon

impersonating an Armada
of Spanish Galleons.

Full sail ahead then.
I took a step into my future.

The smiling President drawing
nearer and nearer.

In Nass
the drenched crowed cheered.

In Newbridge now
flocks of children chase the car

like he was some
kinda Piper from Hamelin.

I kept a close eye on
the secret service

all dressed in the same suit
looking like clones

of one another
talking into their sleeves.

My gaze searches and settles
upon him

like the cross-hairs
of a ******'s rifle.

Sure he had called his setter
King Timahoe

after where his folks came from
another American looking for his roots

bolstering the Irish-American vote.

And now here he was
the man himself

in person
the 37th President.

Irish colleens dancing
upon a make-shift stage

in the square
of Kildare.

He's here oh so near
I can see the pores of his skin

a bead of sweat trickles into
that infamous Nixon grin.

Dare I do it now?
My hair falling into my eyes.

My mind flashes back to
1729

when his Quaker ancestors
fled the Emerald Isle.

Three centuries pass by in a second and
we're here

in the middle of
The Vietnam War

and he speaks of
"a passion for peace...preventing war...building peace."

Yeah yeah...sure sure!

Carpet bombing Cambodia
the famous Nixon duplicity

the "credibility gap" opening
between what he says and what he does.

Oh there are protests
he has 5 eggs hurlers.

"Splatsplatsplatsplat and splat!"
Only one near hit.

And one man protesting
the price of a pint

up'd( for the occasion )to
one shilling and jaysus seven pence.

What's the world
coming to?

School kids waving
their plastic( in slow mo )

American flags
on little plastic sticks.

I raise my flag.
I raise my...voice

shooting my mouth off
with a great shout:

'TRICKY DICKY! TRICKY DICKY!
WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN!"

Several secret service scowl.
My words hit him...Nixon frowns.

Character assassination.

Mr. McCann
aka "The Bicycle Man!"

curses me
in Irish.

After all he is
my Irish teacher.

D'anam leis an diabhal...Ó Diomasaigh!"
("Your soul to the devil...Dempsey!")

"THE TIME HAS COME TO CALL
A ***** A ****** SHOVEL..."

I yell as
I get a clip around the ear.

McCann holds his hand
over my mouth.

Then suddenly Nixon
is no longer

there.

The hurled words
disappear into the air.

Us school boys
***** damply back to double Maths.

The De La Salle
Academy looming up before us.

Mr. McCann
hoovers near.

I cover both
my ears.

But he only tousles
my hair.

"Ahhh mo amadán beag cróga!"
( "Ahhh my brave little fool!")

"Maith an bhuachaill...maith an bhuachaill!"
( "Good boy...good boy!")

He grins.
Slips me a sixpence.

I sing the new Led Zep
only released that day.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Being only 12
I had done what had to be done.

My political life
had only just begun.
*

The long forgotten "never-to-be-forgotten" visit made to Hodgestown near Timahoe in the county of Kildare back in the day as we leave the Sixties sadly behind us for the austerity of the '70's and the "Yes we can" of the Sixties begins to loose its lustre.

The Timahoeans are not exactly proud of giving the world Mr. Nixon and stay quite quiet about it. The Kennedy visit was the golden one and Clinton and Reagan had theirs but Tricky Dicky's one has faded into the fog of history.

"Jessamyn West, who has written so eloquently about the background of our family, has said, the Quakers have a passion for peace. My mother was a pacifist. My grandmother was a pacifist. Jessamyn's mother was, her grandmother, her grandfather, going back as far as we know."

President Nixon in the Timahoe graveyard.

Don't know what happened to him then!

"The time has come to call a ***** a ****** shovel. This country is in an undeclared and unexplained war in Vietnam. Our masters have a lot of long and fancy names for it, like escalation and retaliation, but it is a war just the same." - James Reston.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Led Zeppelin 111 - Immigrant Song.