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amolosh

A million refugees crowd our southern border.

They claim they merely seek a better life.

Is there any way to end this without strife?

Indeed there is! The solution’s made to order:

The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo should go!

Give back to Mexico what was taken

from it at bayonet point in 1848—

Problem solved! No worries guys! Hey presto!!

 

Without Texas, California, Nevada,

Utah, and perhaps Arizona, I don’t know,

Those bracero hordes would still be in Mexico.

Well, perhaps that’s going a bit too far!

Las Vegas? Frisco? Silicon Valley?

Maybe, say, just everything south of LA??

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amolosh

World's End, South Africa


"Who’s a-feär’d?"

—Thomas Hardy’s motto for the Society of Dorset Men

 

Here now is chaos once again,

Primeval mud, cold stones and rain.

Here flesh decays and blood drips red,

And the Cow’s dead, the old Cow’s dead.

—Robert Graves, “Dead Cow Farm” (1918)

 

 

I know a thing I ought not put in verse

But should descend with me into the earth,

For I’m half Saxon—quarter Dorset man,

Another quarter from old Saxony.

Like my model master, Thomas Hardy,

I harbor notions that ought not be read.

The old Saxons favored inhumation—

Up in Anglia, tribals burned their dead.

 

From around Wimborne, George Bailey ferried

Past Meadow Stream, now the river Allen,

In February, or Sprout Kale—Cake Month,*

At length to Africa. There, grandchildren

Mingled their seed with that of many tribes,

And, there born, by right there, too, were buried.


♮♮♮

 

Drough day sheen for how many years

The geäte ha’ now a-swung

Behind the veet o’ vull-grown men

And vootsteps of the young,

Drough years o’ days it swung to us

Behind each little shoe,

As we tripped lightly on avore

The geäte a-vallèn to.

 —William Barnes, “The gate a-fallen to”†

 

 

*The Anglo-Saxons called February “Cake Month,” inasmuch as cakes were offered to the gods then, or “Sprout Kale,” since their cabbages sprouted in that month.

 

†“The gate a-fallen to,” or shut—which is to say, death—was the last poem of the Dorset dialect poet and philologist William Barnes (1801–86).



Wednesday, February 12, 2025

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amolosh

Updated: 5 days ago

The Anglo-Saxon god Tiw, or Týr, for whom Tuesday is named.



Gæð a wyrd swa hio scel! / Weird does as she will!—Beowulf (sometime before 1025 CE)


Saturn's Saturday's deity—and god of old age, where I am now.

Sunday and Monday speak for themselves,

Tiw, Woden, Thunor, and Friga for the other days.

Eostre named your Easter for you.

But there's no special day or time set aside for Wyrd;

Fortuna imperatrix mundi, she rules the lesser gods!




Sæternesdæġ, Mensis Februarius 8, 2025

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 Cyclops by Christos Saccopoulos, used by kind permission of the sculptor.

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