A Tobacco Thanksgiving

At harvest's end, we thank the Lord, at winter's dawn
For granting Man a myriad gifts, Tobacco one.
As howling winds and snow grasp cold this world below
We, grateful, smoke our pipes beside the red hearth's glow.

A Tobacco Poem

To Smoke!
To puff each stroke,
A pipe in hand to stoke;
Sweet tastes betwixt my jaws provoke
To thoughts and proofs my mind. Whiles I am woke
I drift in dreams of streams of silky smoke, I soak
My flying whims, to all philosophies: can words evoke
Those selfsame schemes as swim in bounteous clouds of smoke, tall tales of folk,
Those epics, sonnets, ballads long of yore when men were strong, without revoke?
What spacious power, expressed in silvery wisps, can cause a soul to glimpse the essence spoke
By his own words, and sung by his own chords? What clarity of will dost he convoke?
Forgotten fancies candid made, of rushes stirred, of wildest bullfrog's croak
The Muse's ancient kiss revived dwells full alive, without a yoke-
Received while to the pipe-stem press my lips- I feel a poke
I rest, armchair ornate, as if I had awoke
From slumber, taking sips of bottled coke.
Strength I now wield, a heart not broke
To write what Muses voke.
Tragic or joke,
I Smoke.

Quatrains of Love

To Vicky

O mountains high and spacious, how far do ye span?
O rivers dry, be gracious; quench this thirsty man!
I wander, mad, I weep, I scream "Set this heart free!"
O sweetest maiden, hear my endless love for thee!

The ever-humble worshipper of your Beauty,
Stu


To Vicky

While journeying through toils, each challenging my strength,
I gaze down towards the soil, I stare the trees at length.
Within the whirling leaves I see your curling hair
Though distant run my feet, my thoughts take refuge there.

Always lovingly yours,
Steve

Summer's End

The August sun shines high above the trees,
While bees for nectar search the warming breeze.
The flowers fade, dark green's the tint of leaves
Awhiles this scene, the grey-cloaked dove soft grieves.

The trees and leaves hear not its mournful note
For earless do they grow, bedecked in barken coat.
The bees hear not the call, for they but live
Unto their hive their each-sworn lives to give.

And as the autumn comes, these fade away;
The leaves and bees approach their final day.
But prayers remain within the grey dove's heart
That one day, far away, new spring will start.

The Ballad of Cassandros, Master of Argument

So fine and eloquent the master quoth his argument
His foes were instant swept away, their phrases torn and rent.
Heap praises endless unto him- what title beareth he?
Heir to title Oracle- such great AUTHORITY!

But what opinions hold this noble modern Solomon?
What wisdom, what ecclesiast's dwell deep within his dome?
A list of little things of common life that irketh him
He writes for all to read, upon a wisest little whim.

The first and foremost of these irrelevant things reads thus:
(Drawn from his Bottom Ten, that is, the bottom-most) "Primus-
BULVERISMS". For indeed, to flee these 'tis good votive:
For low must one descend to change debate from Fact to Motive.

Now being right concerning everything, Cassandros shall we call him-
But why? What secrets doth he bear? What tragedy befalls him?
No-one believes him, even though he knows that he is right!
And enemies charge unto him, in argument to fight!

One dreams up strange theologies, defends them with insistence:
A dreadful foe, spawned from his nightmares, Bain of His Existence.
The other's but his Nemesis- of statecraft waxes he:
Of politics, the natures of both Law and Liberty.

The Oracle-in-training speaks of Hierarchic Pyramids,
Indeed he speaks the truth, rising above each of us hearing this!
The lady sitting next to him, he asks to be his Queen:
Each every glorious word he speaks is confident in mien.

His nemesis- oh horrors! doth believe in Rule of Law!
He searches through our hero's arguments to find a flaw!
The foe spies logic-circular, deep at its very root-
Our hero, though is always right- why ought he move his foot?

"But EVERYBODY uses Circle-logic!" whineth he,
"Now Bulverisms, how I hate those! O so verily!"
And so the villain asks him, "What gives you thine firm opinions?
If 'tis still true, what truths around it form its binding pinions?"

A trap! The wise Cassandros, Oracle-forsaken,
Considers his escape, lest his dear words be fried like bacon.
A secret weapon dost the anti-Bulverist pull forth-
What is this last resort of his? 'Tis Bulver'sm, of course!

Indeed, lest it be forgot, it must now be repeated,
Our hero's words are always true! He cannot be defeated!
With skill and eloquence and being-right his foe is pulverized:
How gloriously is his flimsy, poor argument now Bulverized!

Indeed Cassandros reigns victorious, shouts it to the crowd!
The Master of all Argument, O chant his praises loud!
The audience 'round the ring speak in an loud and echoed fluster-
That on this day he Bulverized- best tactic he could muster!

Indeed he did his best, this Bulverist, best words e'er spoken!
For he was right, and Bulverized, and thus his foe is broken!
Such great integrity is held within Cassandros' heart-
The anti-Bulverist, however, now deigns to depart.

For he is humble 'fore the crowd, his man of endless fame:
For humbly doth he say he's right- none can put him to shame!
His words are all immune, indeed, to insult or to satire,
For he is always right, and so why do others' words matter?

And thus he humbly states that he is right 'bout everything,
And shouts it to the throngs, and in the streets it he doth sing.
Why is he right? He Bulverizes, winning every fight:
Bulverisms, of course, justified, because he knows he's right.

The Ruins

I

The biting winds and scattered dust-clouds cross the plain
Their endless whirls begin a wretched grey refrain.
Wide streets, tall arches, scaffolds, spires all reaching high
All empty, lifeless, rotting 'neath a blood-red sky.
One solitary soul, in nearby lonely hills
At day's end, tolled in mind, feels night's cruel coiling chills.
He sees this desolation, barren fruit of toil,
Untimely ended, lost to pillage and turmoil.

II

A great barbarian horde doth lay tremendous waste
Unto the city's streets, with merciless swift haste.
Their chieftains cry aloud, an order new to bring.
Their praises do they force their captives all to sing;
They swear that this new age is greatest of all times.
They burn all relics of the past, they melt the chimes,
Lay fire to tomes and letters, tear great bridges down:
By morning they shall forge a wretched Babylon.

III

The wanderer above reveals his face- a child!
His eyes are bruis'd and downcast, and his hair is wild.
He wonders at these conquerors who rule the land
A rusted locket doth he hold within his hand.
A portrait lies within, of tow'ring gilded spires
The ruined city's streets, before the gnawing fires.
Two warriors seize him now, and drag him back in pain
Unto the city's ruin, to serve for others' gain.

IV

The child now holds fast to his mother's tender arm;
His father's eight years gone; his mem'ries are but harm.
Within a putrid place, with others do they dwell
They hear the tyrant's roars, they see his armies swell.
For every day, another swears a mighty oath
To purge the past away, forgotten deeds to loathe.
Beneath the ancient spires, a brutal order keep
Of every older loyalty, away these warriors sweep.

V

Inside the hovel, do the children gather 'round
These slaves supposed at rest, their hands and feet unbound.
They look upon the locket, and smell the filthy air.
They look upon an apple tree, withered yet fair.
None can remember days 'fore tyrants raped the land;
They scrape for scraps of food midst piles of ash and sand.
An elder lies nearby, his ancient heart lies broke
A little tinder-fire he aims to try to stoke.

VI

He tells unto the children tales of days gone by
Of bustling city walks, of bird up in the sky
Destruction has been brought by this new conqu'ring foe:
No greatness as before, but only ash and woe.
A few wise men remain, rulers survived from old,
They flee in fear and pain, they fight but are not bold.
Mere losing struggles are their battles, weak in will:
They lack morale, and half-believe the lies they kill.

VII

As crushing boot-steps near, as morning nears its dawn,
The foes seize up each wretch to be a slave and pawn.
The wild-hair'd lad hides deep within his frown one thought:
A question without answers, a soul's war ever fought.
Within his beaten scalp, this sacred task he takes:
When those who tell the truth bittersweet life forsakes
He shall alone preserve whate'er few truths remain
When there is naught to lose, there's everything to gain.

VIII

If none are strong whose hearts and souls are full of light,
The weak they could protect would perish in the night.
The tyrant's words, constructed with deceptive mind,
Replace true sense and fact, strike innocent men blind.
Proud banners wave from ruins where proud tyrants dwell;
All right is wrong, all wrong is right, the decadent would tell.
Proud orgies of new lunacies shroud all in gloom,
And the old man, the dying slave, crawls to his tomb.
Last words he speaks, with rasp, and bitter weeping grin:
"These foes are of our blood- they conquered from within."

The Rebel Monarchist, stanzas VI-XI

Behold! On new adventures doth our Hero swift embark.
To sail the seven seas, or maybe just to stroll the park?
His myriad crushing arguments, for Might-makes-Right's True Cause
In former times serv'd as his cymbals, clashing without pause.

But now, he chooses a new task, a most amusing chore:
He gives his challenge, whipping up a witty Poet's War.
Perhaps he entertains certain fresh subjects for this duel?
Indeed! For his old arguments, this duel's his brand-new tool!

And thus he hurls his javelins, his Monarchistic jabs!
Twice swinging at the Constitution, stumbling as he stabs,
While throngs of weeping flatterers adore his rival's verse,
Each begging on their knees "Mock Me! O! Mock me too!" 'til hoarse.

A third blow, now, the Monarchist brings down with vicious clamor,
And those around him tremble at this stroke's resounding tremor.
These new-spun stanzas show his creativity; his best!
He rhymes with eloquence, then writes it oth'rwise like the rest.

In Riotous effort to advance his point through rants and wits
In Tantrum urges 'gainst his foe, t'abstain from "Kicking Fits".
He who would freely break the Constitution for some cause
Accuses his vile rival of now posing 'bove the laws.

How public, bravely, fiercely, does he give his foe hortation
To "Lay Low and Enjoy" it all when evil chokes our Nation.
If only he'd believe in freedom- Paragon he'd be:
He puts such pain and effort toward the cause of Apathy.

The Rebel Monarchist, stanzas II through V

'Twas God ordained Authorities, of all shapes, over men,
Ordaining o'er America the sovereign Constitution.
"This law is illegitimate!" the Monarchist doth stammer-
"MY only law is law of might, of shotgun and steel hammer!"

In order to save countless helpless fools lost in deception,
He mocks the Constitution with his brilliant new perception;
That great enlightened Monarchist gives us a wise perspective:
"It is the will of God for us to follow this directive:

Against what certain is God-given power, our Rule of Law-
Rebel! For thus God wills it ever, fore and even now!
Let government throw off all limits, let the nation tremble-
And him opposing this rebellion is the real rebel!"

"Obey the laws, obey them all!" is what he recommends-
And when unto the nation's throne he mightily ascends:
"No law shall bind me, though I've sworn an oath to law uphold!"
And soon, corrupted by such pow'r, he takes a tyrant's mold.

Quatrain: The Rebel Monarchist

"Might makes right!" he fiercely cries, with rhetoric and quoting,
"The Constitution wields no gun- so therefore it is nothing!"
"Republic is Rebelliousness"- this thought he's oft promoting,
And afterwards goes to the polls to take his part in voting.

For Those who were Interested

The following link contains a copy of Raphael's School of Athens, with all the major figures identified.

http://www.newbanner.com/AboutPic/athena/raphael/nbi_ath4.html