The empty

Don't you know he can fly?

Willow, willow, wailing
We will wisp about the baby
With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a nonny-nonny-noo

With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a wisp-o-will-o wailing
Wisp-o-wispy whisper, whisper
Willy-Chilly-whispy-whisper

A nonny-nonny

Empty all about the shadow
Nothing about, nothing about
Steady, steady, hand is shaking
Breathless giggles, giggles quaking
Laughing, smirking.

Colder lips, lips upon my cold lips,
Breath taking, breath stealing,
Dull dead air lifeless air
Stirless, black, and silent air:
Sharp as flint, hard as stone,
Shiny and black against the dull, dull, shadow

Eyes winking, eyes twinkling,
Starry, splintery, glintery,
Nonny, nonny, whisteley
Prickly, prickly, bristeley

A sudden Crack

A snap, a snap, a mighty snap!
A snap a snap, it made me clap!
Twig, twig, dance a jig!
Dance a jig, with mister pig!

Worse o worse to think of things,
Things with featherless, leathery wings,
Wings that beat upon that air,
Shrunken, twisted, clawed or fisted.

Nonny-nonny, will-o-whispery
Empty, O God it's so empty!
Nothing at all about it,
Nothing there, there's nothing there,

Empty-hempty-shmempty
So giggly, so wiggly-jiggly
All about, so empity-jempity
Giggaly, wiggaly, let's all be giggaly

What is that sound
In the distance
That dull thudding?

To the up-and-coming...

"To know the soul of another, one must know the soul that resides within. To come to know that soul, one must seek to know God, and in so doing come to know the soul-source of humanity itself."

if and when

Young man says:
I want folks to treat me with respect,
I want folks to know what I got inside,
know that what I got can't be bought,
and I ain't sellin'

Young man says:
People are going to look at me and they gonna say:
Look where he's been!
Look what he's done!
Look who that fella knows!

Young man says:
Ain't no place gonna kick me out,
My skin be black as coal,
and people still gonna let me in,
If somethin' ain't right,
I'm gonna tell 'em,
and they're gonna listen.

Young man says:
What's nasty is nasty,
Ain't no use lyin' to people to make them feel good.
I know what's right and I know what ain't,
People are gonna listen.

Young man says:
The world is on fire,
It's burnin' down and goin' to hell,
And if I go with it, I don't care,
because I did what I wanted.

Young man says:
If and when I die,
I'm gonna die knowin'
I didn't take nothin'
That I didn't want.

Old man says:
Let me breathe...
... one more time ...
... without no more pain ...
... breathe ...
... one more time ...

There once was...

There once was a quaggle of bearstrich (a peculiar creature, it bore a striking resemblance to a bear, with a bear's head, and four bear claws, but the body and tail feathers of an Osterich).

Like the Osterich, the creature ran on its back two legs, which were quite spindly for a bear, but all it had to support were these two massive (think "Popeye") bear arms and an unusual, large and stinky, bear's head.

This quaggle (about a half-a-quag more than a meeka and three-and-a-half times less than a terugala) of bearstrichs would spend the entire day standing on these two, spindly hind legs of a bear and drink manhattans in the blazing heat of the Death Valley sun (for they lived here to avoid the interruption of men).

They would drink and discuss politics.

Like Englishmen, they did this, all-the-while, in the heat of the sun.

Bearstrichs loved the sun.

And manhattans.

It was most peculiar, for they never became intoxicated.

Their speech never slurred.

All day, they would drink and tarry, drink and tarry, drink, and tarry.

They tarry about the situation in Miler's Bluff, (for everyone knows those sofu (a Bearstrich expletive) Miler's are a bunch of corrupt ninny-poos), or about some sort of nothing that was usually going on in Pigpoodle holler.

The pigpoodles HATED bearstrichs, and the bearstrichs didn't care much for the pigpoodles either.

It all went back to the great war that transpired one half terugayar before the great migration to the Easterlunds.

A couple of the

Sparkplug Soul

Ok, so "Motorhead" does not really have a song entitled "Sparkplug Soul"; they should have. It fits them.

If they did, I think it would go something like this;

"I wish I had a sparkplug soul,
to go along with my rocker-armed mind.

I wish I had a sparkplug soul,
to lay down some tread on some weary bones.

With a sparkplug soul,
I'd fire every piston.

I'd slam them into my rocker-armed mind.

Electric blast feeling the gaseous sqeeze
in my spark-chamber brain.

With my sparkplug soul,
synapse they fire,
and my crankshaft legs,
they fly, baby, they fly.

Oh how I loves my sparkplug soul.

Sizzle spark.

Sizzle spark.

Sizzle spark.

Ram it home, baby.

Fire me up another spark.

My sparkplug soul.

Peter MacLeinn

The Peter MacLeinn story was carried on a little farther on:

www.petermacleinn.blogspot.com

but is now indefinitely and probably permanently suspended.

If you want to read it and make comments, I would appreciate it. Just be aware that it kind of unraveled.

My other current effort is directed toward

www.bibleformychildren.blogspot.com

which could definitely use some comments.

Sorry I have not been much of a contributor to the Sterq. I have been feeling rather uninspired lately. This is probably due to the rather difficult stuff I have been reading and overall fatigue.

Miguel

Drunken Reverie on the loss of a true, blue, friend

My hat is off, to you, my pal.

Long days, and drunken nights...together we spent!

What a ride it was, this "l'enfant terribleee".

She was a great, old gal, a grand dame, in deed!

And what a grand ol' flag above her did once waive (and now, no men, together, can save).

But now, she is daid...and all that we have before us, and before us is mourn, mourn, mourn.

For the life of a gal, who was once...so grand ! God love her soul.

God, love her soul !

A Grande Dame was she (Vespuci will vouch). A Grande Dame, a grand gal, and the

love

of the South.

Young scouts they did pledge, an honor so deep.

But now, she is gone, all piled up in a heap.

Oh now, she is gone, and what have we left? A memory of her, and a life, now bereft.

But here's the grand deal (and a grand deal 'tis indeed)...

A man once commented to me, as I sat in the East, that "our thang" was on wane, that "she", like her, was dying, slow death.

And to him I did reply from my seat way on high "if she lives in one heart, she lives without 'part' ".

And so it must go; "virtus junxit mors, non separabit" !

Grand dreams, grand schemes (and even grandier idears) - they too, they will live, if only they live in one heart (that beats true. That, beats true).

And so I must go, and so I must do, as those who before me, brave bastards knew too.

True dinkem, true dinkem, true dinkem 'til dee.

So drink 'til you drop, mon frere and mon ace!

Together we live, if (in secret) our hearts - they do keep pace, keep pace, keep pace - until end of long race...

And onward, and upward, together we will trudge, and an eagle one day, us both, she will judge.

From this pit we will fly, and rise from crevace, and above lousey fray, cherub raptors we will boss.

And order she will come, to a chaos that is high, and at talon-swords that we weild, she-devils they will die!

We will rip, we will tear, ripping flesh until bone - she will bear.

Uncovering truth from she-devil's dark, dank, deep lair.

And forsooth, God will reign, and we upon knee, upon knee we shall bear - a burden so light, hard burden, but no care.