Nothing New under the Sun

The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.—Ecclesiastes 1:9 (KJV)

The Preacher, you protest, must be out to lunch.

Yes, Assyrians descended, wolves on the fold,

But Putin's cruel hitmen worse savage, as told,

With missiles and drones, when it comes to the crunch.

We have AI, smart phones, Elon Musk!

These things are all new, they're scarcely sub fusc.

Here novelty rages from sunrise till dusk.

Plastic archipelagoes accessorize the sea.

Rockets to Barsoom are sure soon to be.

Why, the wonders of MAGA are just on the cusp!

In his tomb under Zion, King Solomon stirred.

From deep in his dreaming, he muttered this word:

Fools! Sennacherib was like Netanyahu; Sargon like Trump,

They all do its bidding when AI says jump!

Artificial intelligence is nothing new.

It's natural wisdom that's vanished from view.

Elijah ascended in a chariot to heaven.

Smart telephones are Beelzebub's leaven.

There is no new thing, believe me, under the sun.

That battle was lost long before yours could be won.

Note: "Barsoom" is the Martians' name for their world in the novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs, evidently favorite reading in the Musk family. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barsoom.

Tuesday, November 25, 2025

The Bagatelle

“Who is that bear whose porridge is always just right? I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves.”—Ludwig Wittgenstein

Truth is provisional, time flows,

Where it comes from,

Where it goes,

No one knows,

Past and future live in our minds,

Depending on what the present finds,

The sun has spots, a leopard, too.

Commas are many. Full stops, few.

All or none of this may be true—

I can’t  tell.

Vive la bagatelle!

Tuesday, November 25, 2025

Pickle Juice

Winslow Homer, Beach Scene (ca. 1869)

A few pickles short of a jar, as a child,

like so many of my compatriots,

I picked this recipe: born to be free, peas

in a pod, all hat, no cattle, play it as it lays.

A plurality of congers calls for bouillabaisse!

Our own native table, tempting from afar,

is unimpeachable—circling no distant star

but in a parallel universe nearby,

too bad, these days, it's hardly reachable.

I've met with unexpurgated views,

but authority bans mention of intention.

We defendants live in barrels, drink

pickle juice (it's good for cramps),

wear wreaths of plaited dill.

When you crack it, the jar will spill

a quantity to which likenesses defer.

We'd like to ask why, but never will,

swearing, on our sacred honor, to endure.

This poem was written after watching Ken Burns' series "The American Revolution" and musing on its present-day outcomes.

Monday, November 24, 2025