“It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with
  all their deeds.”

  Ossian.


NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Religion’s shrine! repentant HENRY’S pride!
Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister’d tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,

Hail to thy pile! more honour’d in thy fall,
  Than modern mansions, in their pillar’d state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
  Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.

No mail-clad Serfs, obedient to their Lord,
  In grim array, the crimson cross demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board,
  Their chief’s retainers, an immortal band.

Else might inspiring Fancy’s magic eye
  Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;
Marking each ardent youth, ordain’d to die,
  A votive pilgrim, in Judea’s clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief;
  His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
  Retiring from the garish blaze of day.

Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
  The monk abjur’d a world, he ne’er could view;
Or blood-stain’d Guilt repenting, solace found,
  Or Innocence, from stern Oppression, flew.

A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
  Where Sherwood’s outlaws, once, were wont to prowl;
And Superstition’s crimes, of various dyes,
  Sought shelter in the Priest’s protecting cowl.

Where, now, the grass exhales a murky dew,
  The humid pall of life-extinguish’d clay,
In sainted fame, the sacred Fathers grew,
  Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray.

Where, now, the bats their wavering wings extend,
  Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade;
The choir did, oft, their mingling vespers blend,
  Or matin orisons to Mary paid.

Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
  Abbots to Abbots, in a line, succeed:
Religion’s charter, their protecting shield,
  Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.

One holy HENRY rear’d the Gothic walls,
  And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY the kind gift recalls,
  And bids devotion’s hallow’d echoes cease.

Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer;
  He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair—
  No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God.

Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,
  Shakes with the martial music’s novel din!
The heralds of a warrior’s haughty reign,
  High crested banners wave thy walls within.

Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
  The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish’d arms,
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,
  Unite in concert with increas’d alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
  Encircled by insulting rebel powers;
War’s dread machines o’erhang thy threat’ning brow,
  And dart destruction, in sulphureous showers.

Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor’s siege,
  Though oft repuls’d, by guile o’ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege,
  Rebellion’s reeking standards o’er him wave.

Not unaveng’d the raging Baron yields;
  The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer’d still, his falchion there he wields,
  And days of glory, yet, for him remain.

Still, in that hour, the warrior wish’d to strew
  Self-gather’d laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles’ protecting genius hither flew,
  The monarch’s friend, the monarch’s hope, to save.

Trembling, she ******’d him from th’ unequal strife,
  In other fields the torrent to repel;
For nobler combats, here, reserv’d his life,
  To lead the band, where godlike FALKLAND fell.

From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,
  While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense, now, ascends to Heaven,
  Such victims wallow on the gory ground.

There many a pale and ruthless Robber’s corse,
  Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O’er mingling man, and horse commix’d with horse,
  Corruption’s heap, the savage spoilers trod.

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o’erspread,
  Ransack’d resign, perforce, their mortal mould:
From ruffian fangs, escape not e’en the dead,
  Racked from repose, in search for buried gold.

Hush’d is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
  The minstrel’s palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
  Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
  Retire: the clamour of the fight is o’er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,
  And sable Horror guards the massy door.

Here, Desolation holds her dreary court:
  What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen’d birds resort,
  To flit their vigils, in the hoary fane.

Soon a new Morn’s restoring beams dispel
  The clouds of Anarchy from Britain’s skies;
The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell,
  And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies.

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;
  Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones,
  Loathing the offering of so dark a death.

The legal Ruler now resumes the helm,
  He guides through gentle seas, the prow of state;
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,
  And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.

The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
  Howling, resign their violated nest;
Again, the Master on his tenure dwells,
  Enjoy’d, from absence, with enraptured zest.

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,
  Loudly carousing, bless their Lord’s return;
Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale,
  And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.

A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float,
  Unwonted foliage mantles o’er the trees;
And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,
  The hunters’ cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.

Beneath their coursers’ hoofs the valleys shake;
  What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase!
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;
  Exulting shouts announce the finish’d race.

Ah happy days! too happy to endure!
  Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew:
No splendid vices glitter’d to allure;
  Their joys were many, as their cares were few.

From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed;
  Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart;
Another Chief impels the foaming steed,
  Another Crowd pursue the panting hart.

Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
  Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line,
  Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers;
  Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers;
  These, these he views, and views them but to weep.

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret:
  Cherish’d Affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love, forbid him to forget,
  But warm his *****, with impassion’d glow.

Yet he prefers thee, to the gilded domes,
  Or gewgaw grottos, of the vainly great;
Yet lingers ’mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
  Nor breathes a murmur ‘gainst the will of Fate.

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet, may shine,
  Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours, splendid as the past, may still be thine,
  And bless thy future, as thy former day.

You've killed us with sword, and you've killed us with bow

Killed us by dropping us down far below

You take our remains and use them for crafting,

Now, Minecrafter, we have questions for asking.

Which of us 'mobs' do you the most fear?

Who makes you shake when our name you do hear?

Answer us, Notch-Child, answer us well

Your innermost fears to us you shall tell.

Is the Creeper, the camouflaged one

That scares you the most (Even in the Sun)?

For whenever he sees you, he flashes in white,

And will, lest vanquished, explode in the night?

Maybe the Zombie, who travels in hordes,

Attacking Testificates, breaking down doors?

When the terrible moan comes forth from his throat,

Do you despair, do you lose all hope?

Perhaps a Skeleton, wielding his bow,

Is he – do you think – the most terrible foe?

The ****** that sees you, wherever you are,

Draws back his weapon and kills from afar?

Could it be a Spider, eyes glowing red,

That climbs up the walls, does he fill you with dread?

Perchance it's his brother, down in the mines,

With poisonous fangs he waits, biding his time?

Perchance the Silverfish, hiding in rock,

That swarm and attack should you break down its block?

Is it them you fear whilst exploring the caves

Faced with them, can you call yourself brave?

Or the Slime, living far underground

That scares you away with its odd shape and sound?

The small ones can't hurt you, that much is true,

But the largest ones bring harm swiftly to you.

You've crafted a portal, and think yourself clever,

But can you withstand our dear friends in the Nether?

They dwell in a land full of lava and fire

Do you fear the ones in the burning mire?

The Zombie Pigman, needing no explanation,

They protect one another, an undead nation.

Are they the ones that you find most frightening?

And appear in Overworld when a pig's struck by lightning?

Is it the Ghast, silver tear in its eye,

That scares you away and makes you cry?

It really is best not to get in one's way

If one shot at you, would you run from the fray?

What of the Blaze, whose body burns bright,

Guardian of fortresses, that sets you alight?

Maybe it's they who send you running to

Your home where you dream of the water deep blue.

We're nearing the End of our little game,

Our question, however, is always the same.

Are you scared of the 'mobs' in the land full of void?

Or maybe, perhaps, you're just vaguely annoyed?

Fear you the Enderman, standing so tall

Him do you fear, the most of all?

Look not to his eyes or he'll teleport near you

And **** unless you swim in water clear and blue.

Or the Dragon, whom to leave the End you must fight,

That heals himself with pillars of light?

He flies through the air, majestic and black,

But face him you must, for there's no turning back.

You've killed us with lava, killed us by drowning,

But now whom the most fearful one are you crowning?

You've killed us, even, with your bare fists.

For now, questions answered, we retreat to the mists.



Which mob do YOU fear?

The annual rose garden blushes beneath a soft dress
in May. My crooked puppet's shadow has subsided in the theater it came to make way for fairweather, protest, wet teal ink
flowering the walls as sunlight shines thru and the mechanical
blinking of shadowy eyes now spurred AWAKE.
An Appalachian mind gaze and spiderweb neon
smoke attaching it's warmth to every freckled cheek,
a mint kiss like the opening of a fir tree smelted into the
foggy earth.

Ceramics embroider the shop sills
and ceiling fans wave hello n farewell to every guest
each day longer than the last!
WANDERER slept
sound in the Nagakin Capsule Tower, few nights ago now,
had an idea, lost it, feather flowed it's way across Pacific
to my bedroom and I wrote about her here, and saw a Japanese tea ceremony flash by
her eyes/my eyes
a collective consciousness
sometimes years apart.

She, who's witnessed the debris of catastrophe,
standing over what was a golden vase
filled with Tulips
now ash, forgotten except for in a memorial vague outline
in the bewitched brain(s)
Visionary! Arms twitched to the rapture occurring in plain view of us all
VIOLIN rebounding intangible yet unmistakable sound
on a train in Tokyo city. Cement is damp with Spring's sweet rain,
her feet sore from all this walking!

I appreciate her travels, as they are at once my own,
a second-hand enchantment
the taste of green tea, cherries!
EXPLOSIVE FORMLESS ANIMAL WHITE
feather grazed my skin, startled.

This feeling??
something set free, a violent hue erratic
markings on the cave walls, the one from Plato's allegory,
watching fire light the shape of our bodies and some spectacular image displays itself invisible
but felt, undeniable!
Settled, fire transferred to our lungs.
We call this “ART”
we have left the cave, to Paris, to Senegal, to Jaipur,
to her and I and you.

Animal oh animal caged no longer,
howling paintings and smells to our eyes,
bitten our hands sharp with poetry,
this ghast who's empathy for strangers has made a rare few dizzy. Possession! Willingly accepted nocturnal entity and I write this because I can't help myself.

THIS IS WHAT CREATED THE MANDALA,
COLORS OF AN ANCIENT PEACOCK
LURKING WITHIN US TENDING THE FLORA
which takes inspiration from museums, from brief embers shot up in a chasm fireplace illustrating what we'll call Forever,
vocal alchemist who resides in descending faint harp and opera
a fountain in a mysterious lobby only visited by one person, once every few months,
birds shimmer in planted palms and a crystal ceiling expounds the details of travels to come,
an orb above like an observatory for our OWN universe.

APOLLO IN LAUREL
PIANO, ASIAN INFLUENCE,
Damien Hirst's “Beautiful darkness spreading to every corner of your mind painting"
framed holy upon the walls
Jean Cocteau's “The Blood of a Poet” projected also, side by side.
A painted face, a parrot imitating Sudhana

“This is the abode of those of unobstructed intellect and broad mind,
Enjoying the realm of space, free from dependence,
Penetrating all times, free from obstruction,
Clearly perceiving all being and becoming” - Avatamsaka Sutra

I'm speechless!
She's speechless! Her Tokyo, admittedly imaginary. It's her private
Nagakin Capsule Tower. It's my private Temple, my private Cocteau,
shelves stocked with the poems I'll one day write.
Words which shall knock on my dented skull in sleep mostly, but other times I can't recall as of this moment (Get back to me in July)
retired to literary France
and caught in the quicksand of aging, perhaps medicine will be far along enough that I shall die at 173?
a stretch, but considering that sciences are pushing for immortality by 2045 (pfft)
we shall see.
(??)
Bearded and divine with love
and experience from Airplanes
free jazz, dramatics,
heart to heart, dense libraries,
evening walks to Montmartre
a hand to hold
a kiss to experience.
Meditations,
Rodriguez “Sugar Man” fades out
“Silver magic ships... you carry...”
Sung once by the European barista in British Columbia who kept me caffeinated with a double shot of espresso for guessing the song right which was playing..This just happened, but I realize it'll become such a faint memory by then.
Out and out and out and out there
Far beyond the reaches of consciousness that previously mentioned feather will gather with the other ideas and become the WHITE peacock, infinite.
Carrying us there as wintry atoms
snowdrops on it's back.
One life to another.

Stencil-streamed mud-clipped boots,
Eiffel tower disguise,
Brilliantly wrapped in a corona,
Of sadness and delight

Un-burdened I dance,
Stinging silently across,
Aqua colors,
Symposium of disaster they call,
Whom life?

You speak of as if it was betrothed to you alone,
Or some ghast faint reflection
Someday the purpose of creation,
will creatively in-twine, over
and over again

Dis-purse, dis-purse,
like cool mists of glee,
showers of gladness,
inside droplets of peace

You threw slippers to floor
The rippled mess a'lore
Fifteen nights of settled dawn
For one dusk without a yawn
I tussled with a night of sleep
To greet you mouth-agape with seep

No interest now, on lore of past
I grip your hand, in spite of ghast
"******* for good", you let me know
Fallen fast, I shreik, fathom of crow
The door, it echoes, blast my mind
For thinking, I would cease a bind

A cold night awaits at sill
Eyes lost in not a night of thrill
Moon ablaze, oh my heart it knows
The pain it shines with the light in flows
Car screech, clock bites the final end
Moon you know the things we fend
Look at night for I can see it done
Let it known, just don't tell the sun

Everything is starless.


What hand claps count the silent syllables.


How easily the sentiment of humanity leaves itself
in ghast emissions. This dust, now, remarking at itself.


But now, how words misspell out of me in grey, phosphorescent gestures.


All lights bend from me.
If they had heads they would turn away, ashamed.


Everyone is quiet in the darkness.


This infinite moment has stolen the lungs from me.

A catastrophe happened,
I say, I say,
All I heard was the sound of the fay,
A whirl and a twirl,
Till the sun melted first,
Like a bottom of reasons that don't contain hurt,

I saw it! I saw it! The sailor announced,
Like as if a ghost had came into his house,
The purpose for me, is the purpose for you,
To live life out,
In the bottom of a shoe,
Don't pounce, or be some shy with me,
You groven truc' von shapaloop'
I saw that man with the mystery chair,
Asking me sharply if I was still there,

I said howdy do,
Mr. you know who,
I just hope you know you,
or better yet your self you do,
To see the fire standing top,
To the see the valley's slow down and stop,
A'ghast the greener' flames' I see,

A little old man, about yay' to be,
Came in with his forest of fears,
And failures, Out with the mustard, and guilty potato's I said alas,
He said get the people together for mass,
Must I said I to him that's so vast,
He said don't worry my love will last

My annoying wavy hair
was the curse and my ridicule
when I was young.

"Curly hair is a plague!"
They ghast!
Lashing down my confidence.

How annoying was to comb it
wishing to have
the same straight hair as my peers

Until the day I lost most of it.

Now I miss my annoying hair
I miss people noticing it
I miss brushing it
I miss being annoyed by it...

the same way I miss the annoying You.
I miss our little quarrels
our mishaps
our hugs
our tears
I miss people talking bad about us
I miss the anger brought by our love
I miss the midnight talks
I miss the times we don't speak
  because we were afraid to make things worse
I miss our secret adventures
Our saddest mistakes
your annoying voice
your angry stare
and all your negativity

Like my annoying hair
I wished that I had done everything
to keep you
I wished that
I held on one last time.

I miss my annoying hair
the same way that I miss
my annoying life with you


It's annoying.

As you flick the wand, one more time
Again in a 360 rotation, around,
From wall to door
Her lean torso serpentine coils, her mind cocked to spin
Memories she hasn’t felt since ancestors past
Nor this hunger for the hunt
Crouched low against the carpet fibers
Peeking through the lattice squares
The gaze, the stare, the pause
Of the dining chairs
The hunch, the pounce, the ****,
The finishing blow.
Grace and ferocity beyond what even Discovery could say
It’s all a game, illusion:
To catch is to win, but to catch will end the game
To chase is to win the excitement, but to lose?
But, ah, all is but frustrated
To lose, is the essence of the game
Chasing quantum excitations
Like that chance for a mouthful of pride
In pursuit
But a ghast, fleet of foot myth
She says in the semaphores of her midair leap
With delusions comes laughter,
I am the uninhibited one
Dancing for beasts.

Then one day our skin shed and our
organs misted, all that left was buzzings.
And some post-molting wore their old coats
like necromantic cyborgs, and some buzzed together to a bee.
But it took only one ghast accumulating of intertwined
perpendicular lines, the spider before the egg
who could fly across the Ouroboros gagging a new,
and cut the threads of astral, crimson nebulas anchoring
our time.

Slow poke, takes all day
to tell the joke,
taken serious
charms change minds,
but we be knowing something
in a work of McLuhan's
pain humor we ache
to know, just us
iustathank, amen, now
confidently scientific as all hell broke loose.
.. war… makes no sense, so peace must win.
we must be taught, what the range is, degrees
of dislike, degrees
of not like me metrics, points
of similarity, any member paid attention
can and may, relearn early lessons,
noted whole made child who
in some cultures, first lives
at first breath, holds hope
a child's spirit is ever
after interfacing
with life, face
to face,
in truth,
knowing empowerment
init intuited assist informing

Aftnext allusion lieved seem news
courier dispatched away…

An Old English word
for it was aerendgast,
literally "errand-spirit."
Guest… right, ghast
in fact.
Ag me on, old boy,

Word Origin: Derived
from the root
ἀγγέλλω (aggellō),
meaning "to announce" or "to bring tidings."
-jello time me, 5wpm molasses in January
agree, tis the season
for sappy stories
Prosaic knowledge, face to face,
with a spirit, given good grace,
worshipped, tested, proven
worthy, grace a taste,
sweet for granted.
Be it sour, taste with grace, ongean.
Take proof, fear no angry gods, fear no hellforms,

endure
to the last stage, season,
after season, last stage, any age,

Wisdom shows herself, gentle,
easily entreated, peaceable, opposing

orders
of magnitude and precedents
in laws, allowing liberty, indeed,
to mean we may
as we,
believe our own lies,
too long,
like a song,
well, you know,
then we eventually die.

Some become details,
in mapped meanings,

points
of departure
from norm, expect
miracles, Pournelle reminds me…

most is a waveform word, peak
is such a word, as well, we speak

and expect, eventually, we'll see,

ra'ah, the beaten dead horse resurrects,
and the medical laughter releases
at will,
at will, indeed,
beauty rightly shown
done, is known done,
undone is deconstructing,
what we both thought at once

first, I can live
on sublime joy, making
but, the jubilation association,

awesome feeling one has as we,
the people who enjoy driving slow.

It leaves one willing
to wait
to see.

Coming of age… predictable

among the watchers called
to sort and divide
between soul and spirit,

simple material spiritual sublime

"the hoary head is a crown of glory,
if it be found
in the way
of right use ness."
Necessary essence
cess pool science is not trivial, ever
be sence, sense, since sometimes beings
be all we ever was. As aweformed weings…

as when our side wins, we each take pride,
as when our spirit lifted up the lagging pride,

with fear
of shame, loser shame,
outathe game, exile, out law

cultural yokes break right then, when
the proud contentious spirit, popped,

and all that could have been true,
had the bubble
of all we knew been true,
not
popped, and we not
remember believing true

some sacred parables, formed while pearling,
rolling an inconvenient truth
behind our teeth,

we think, ******* vacuum muscle, hard thought,
we resist the grinding, loose,
laxing tight jaws…
we wait.

We can believe this was first enjoyable,
then peaceable and therefore treated
with as wise,
ifthenelse
in stop and think this may take days…
init ongean errand
intuit it takes a minute…

Ten at the most

Look
to the sky, sow
in season, easy as a pop.

And an animated version of an ol…al be
As Iamb, ever a step one may take
All ye, all ye, outs in free, so say
The magi, et Phrygian sailors,
under Castor and Pollux
sharing immortality,
taking teller right,
find a lode, mine
right, be used
to think I know,
where these things
lead, long ago, we all

may know now, factcheck
evolved
from spellcheck
integrated since WordStar,

Pournelle, Military mind, penned
the plan planet
in this mind, let be

in the proud few who endure
to the end the message loads,

in terms endearing details twice told
tales, ten times sense
of last chance,
preposed
past,
alive,
breathing, as believing freedom
from the press has evolved
to inform
the uniform code
of military justice must apply
- when precious inherited angry
- honor bound wille zur machts
- nichts, nix, **** reproves

knowing is  using a known,
neuron dopamenergic anticipation,

expect the super natural reward,
perceive the miracle expected,
think snow, visualize
neuroninc literally
as we may think
on the wall between us,
in living words,
thinking nothing shameful, beguiledness,

passes the instant one assumes self control.

Why does the one old boy, believe, we've all
some obstacles
in common, relative,
to role, roles, we choose,

used, Goethe's best advice,
think every thing again,
and do it oftener sooner

when one buys a seat
at the table,
with the likes and dislikes
of Franklin and Nietzsche,

sacred pauses signal choices,
suns down, we're running
on battery, were we children

from TVLand, on Commercial Social
Media, news medium artificed
matter facts form in, thus
information conforms
to medium,

and possibly disregards inverse squares.

============
This we possibility, we know,
could be
we did,
now,
know
we just be, not me, not  you, we

as a we, we mature, and disintegrate,
we sort ourselves out, and look back

at all the lies we ever believed, far back

child ideas
about angels and God and words,
spelled, said nasty figsabout nasty figs, words,
mined mind
conserved
at cognate level, today… allusions
usions focus uses
are coming
to us
from a pile
of memory verses, kept
for such a time as this,
when the beauty, yes
abstraction allows,
manifests points,

when the television taunts you,
does any body know your name?

Oh, yAH ra'ah, you see, we know, goodness,
is something we waited for, hoping subsidized

by faith
in Christmas
from the POV
of the king or wiseman or magi or sage,
who a…
at the age
of seven…
reenacted ritual,
for the whole town,
obeisance as predicted
in some readings
interpreted as prophetic
in Daniel.

Knowledge would increase, sense,
and all its accents, congeal, common

google plexity, one
among us, you, insist
we seem
in tune we hope, we dance

it is a waltz it always is
unless it’s a slow polka.

Third time's the charm. Charm deserves use tax,
one pays attention
to the chance handle
between worth
of sacred pausing
to ask corrections
to occur as we go, so
we leave as little evidence as possible.

The good who chose the fade away option,
those live
to tell tales such as few believe.

a s sweet innocence stares
g host of blackened sin
h aunts the universe
a ttacks the soul within
s oft, gentle tiptoe
t urns to shout and blow

a nd no-one bats an eyelid
g oes to save the kid
h elps the untouched soul
a gainst the gaping hole
s ucking in the piety
t o satiate society

a ghast divinity shivers
g asps for inner light
h ungers for Caregiver
a midst the ghouls of night
s inking in black river
t he tears of human blight