Prometheus Freed

"One more cup of coffee before I go to the valley below" – One More Cup Of Coffee, The White Stripes, The White Stripes

Love of Europa

In the darkest dawn

Europa shall rise

As the Phoenix

Reborn and wielding

Sword and Shield

Fire her breath

Wisdom her words

The love of her sons and daughters

The mother only asks

Their hearts born of steel

Will be the sacrifice given

In the Sacred Grove

On the polished pew

Between the cobblestone of ancient roads

From the hot smell of supper

A whisper will grow

Into the voice strong and proud

Will her sword bang the shield

Those that rise from their slumber

Shall know the call

A call of trumpets traveling the wind

A stroke of the vivid brush

Painting a bright Sun

The Hounds of Hel have been

Unleashed from their dark, deep abode

With strong, flashing steel

With burning eyes, smirking lips

The Hounds will fall

So, stalwart defenders

Show that dark, deep Hel

Sons and Daughters of Europa

Know no equal

Come home to light the pyres of heroes

To sing the deeds of Kin

To avenge the blood of saints

Show Europa the love due a wife

She shall valiantly reward the due

The Mouse On The News

With the eyes of a hawk

I read and search

For the mouse in the news

On and on I fly

Lies, truth, deceit

Are the grasses of the field


The Serpents hidden in the fields

Whisper in the ears

Of the fool and wise

Forked tongues weave

Tales and fables

Absurd and simple

There, across the river

Is the parable

The mouse scrambling amongst

The rocks

Climbing the mountain

It scurries

Already I weary

Become man I must

Pondering and deliberate

Now are my chains

Slowly I climb the mountain

Upright I’ am

Slowly I go

As the Beast bounds ahead

Yet I know I must

Carry on

For the summit parts the clouds

From Homer to Aristotle, Ovid to Virgil

Patriarch to Prophet

Milton to Pope

Locke to Rand

Goebbels to Hunter S. Thompson

Tread straight

The gold is sifted through the mud

Headline to pulp

The greats transmute the metals of the base

Anger, grief, desperation

Is the flight of the Raven

His flight noisy and low

Yet the fool is the wisest

Not knowing his gold

Let loose the Ravens

Follow their flight

They will show you

The mouse

Chapter 4


Poetry singing
Through whispering leaves
I bow
To this rhyme

Originally posted on mindlessfloyd:

Wednesday’s shamble, the mouthless ramble
Speaking a language they need not know
The helpless foray, here only today
Leading us where’s best not to go
And as we break rank, the ground gives thank
To seek mistakes once made by it’s foe

View original

John Locke on Gentlemen

“Reading is for the improvement of the understanding.

The improvement of the understanding is for two ends; first, for our own increase of knowledge; secondly, to enable us to deliver and make out that knowledge to others.

The latter of these, if it be not the chief end of study in a gentleman; yet it is at least equal to the other, since the greatest part of his business and usefulness in the world is by the influence of what he says, or writes to others.

The extent of our knowledge cannot exceed the extent of our ideas. Therefore he, who would be universally knowing, must acquaint himself with the objects of all sciences. But this is not necessary to a gentleman, whose proper calling is the service of his country; and so is most properly concerned in moral and political knowledge; and thus the studies, which more immediately belong to his calling, are those which treat of virtues and vices, of civil society, and the arts of government; and will take in also law and history.

It is enough for a gentleman to be furnished with the ideas belonging to his calling, which he will find in the books that treat of the matters above-mentioned.

But the next step towards the improvement of his understanding, must be, to observe the connexion of these ideas in the propositions, which those books hold forth, and pretend to teach as truths; which till a man can judge, whether they be truths or no, his understanding is but little improved; and he doth but think and talk after the books that he hath read, without having any knowledge thereby. And thus men of much reading are greatly learned, but may be little knowing.

The third and last step therefore, in improving the understanding, is to find out upon what foundation any proposition advanced bottoms; and to observe the connexion of the intermediate ideas, by which it is joined to that foundation, upon which it is erected, or that principle, from which it is derived. This, in short, is right reasoning; and by this way alone true knowledge is to be got by reading and studying.

When a man, by use, hath got this faculty of observing and judging of the reasoning and coherence of what he reads, and how it proves what it pretends to teach; he is then, and not till then, in the right way of improving his understanding, and enlarging his knowledge by reading.”

The Call

The Raven from high above

Did call

Alone I heard the call

Though all Kin

Were called

In his cry

A croak grown hoarse

Was the trumpets

Of war

The ground was dry

For long had the blood

Of heroes wet

It’ s thirsty tongue

The Kin die slowly

With a whisper and many silent

Why is this so?

For if the poet only

Hears the Raven

Then what children

Can hear the hero?

So my Kin rise up

Not with voice

Or pen

With steel and blood

For the Serpent tricked you

With fine cloth and bed

Quench the thirsty ground

Sake the poet’ s pen

For the children ask

Where is the hero?

Return To Strength

A people’ s roots are like a tree, deep and entwined in the soil of their land. When the tree is uprooted and planted elsewhere the roots grow in new soil, the tree becomes of it’s new soil forgetting the old soil. Generations lose connection to the old soil that made the tree. The tree lives on and new trees grow. When the wind blows through the leaves it sings a different tune. When it rains it drinks different water. The Spirit of the Tree in new soil, hearing new wind, drinking new water, is not the same. It has changed through environment, the home a memory. It feels different. It is sad, for a reason unknown. Hard it adjusts to the new soil. The happiness fades as the soul tries to reach out and feel the old soil. With tough bark it has courage. It passes the seasons living, doing it’s duty to nature. The forest is new, the sprouts young. Yet it is not the same, something of the old forest is gone. At night, in the breeze you hear a distant whisper. A whisper of longing of a return to the old soil. Of roots deep to the rock. The new forest without the ancestors is lonely without their whispers, it grows and loud are the voices of the young. They ask for stories, they ask of the Elders. They ask for heroes. The Willow asks the Oak, grandfather what of the old day, of your Father? May we hear the wind from there, here? The Oak answers; no Willow for you are young and that place is far away. The soil is old and the wood is in it. The wind does not speak this far. The Willow asks the Oak, do you remember Father grandfather? Yes, Willow it was a long time ago in different soil. The wood fed our roots, the water we could taste with our leaves, the animals we sheltered under our limbs. We sheltered and watched the animals through many generations. We knew them. In time we will know these things in this new place. Oak, grandfather when will we go back? Never Willow for our roots are here now. Grandfather Oak this new soil is new like me. I want to know of the old soil. I want to learn the Wisdom from the old soil. I want to shelter the forest in friendship and kinship. I want to be Oak. Willow I’ am sorry for this soil is too new for you to be Oak.

A Crackling Dream

A dream of the future
Of a future long on
The horizon of a rising sun

Crackling wood, crisp winters
Bright summers, cozy nights
An axe in hand
A book in hand
The fair woman
Curled up in the plush chair
Her body warmed and comforted
By the bearskin
Enveloping fair skin
Smooth and shining

A wind gently assaults
The stalwart logs
Of a cabin in the woods
The axe splits the wood
The hoe tends the garden
The gunshot fells the moose
The pen carves into rough paper
Memorable words

Seen from the frosted window
The dog chases the hare
Seen from the chair
The cat lazes by the stove
Of crackling wood
Of comforting heat

Tranquility and purpose
Peace and struggle
These things
Exist hand in hand
In the beautiful dance
Of nature and rustic cabin

Blood and sweat to build the cabin
Love and God to fill it
For the Kingdom is made
Through struggle and purpose
Inch by inch
The foot, one in front off the other
A thought on top of the other
A calluse is a path to entry
Bliss is earned of work
Well done

The Meaning of Life?

For thousands of years philosophers have pondered the most difficult question of all; The Meaning of Life. This question is integral to our existence and has been left unanswered, only postulated. There are several questions on the periphery; where do we come from?, what is my purpose here?, is there a God? Asking these questions you can come to why am I here? What is the meaning of all this? Is this real or illusionary?

Due to the profound nature of this question finding the answer directly is monumental. So I’ am going to attack it from the flank. Let me start with a definition from the Oxford Dictionary of English;


Pronunciation: /kriːˈeɪt/

Definition of create


  • 1 [with object] bring (something) into existence: he created a thirty-acre lakeover 170 jobs were created
  • cause (something) to happen as a result of one’s actions: divorce created only problems for children
  • (of an actor) originate (a role) by playing a character for the first time: Callas created only one role, and that was Eurydice
  • [with object and complement] invest (someone) with a title of nobility: he was created a baronet
  • 2 [no object]Britishinformal make a fuss; complain: little kids create because they hate being ignored





late Middle English (in the sense ‘form out of nothing’, used of a divine or supernatural being): from Latin creat- ‘produced’, from the verb creare

Religions have a creation myth and many cultures sufficiently advanced have one too. A vast amount of people agree we are living in a creation of an entity; supernatural, omnipresent, ruling over our existence. Pick your attributes. The attribute that I’ am focusing on is the creator one. At least two creation myths I know about say we were made in the image of the Creator entity. It makes sense as our penchant for creating art, technology, cities, etc, would reflect the inspiration and fire of this Creator, a mirror of the image. If we are in the image of the Creator are we not creators?

Looking at the life systems of our home life seems to have one goal designed to create. A tree seeds, a cell divides, animals reproduce. Every form of life has a mechanism to create a copy (reproduce) of itself.

God ‘brings (something) into existence’, a world and man, the man in his image. His creations create and one, man, creates in the image of his Creator. All of our life we are creating, the blink of an eye bringing a movement into existence, writing a symbol on paper, eating and feeding the division of cells, building ideas made of wood, stone, metal. As you read this these words sixty times a second these words are blinking in and out of this creation.

The Meaning of Life is to Create. The Purpose you have to find for yourself.

Untitled so I name Unspoken

Much today is unspoken

Of the White Man and his flight

From places he alone once tamed

And brought into the light.


But plenty is spoken now

Of a vision widely known

Of cruelty, hate, and genocide

Reserved for White alone.


The rationale is plain and simple

Those with evil hearts will say

White is the oppressor color

Who still yet rules the day.


By declaring the White Man thus

The eternal evil one,

Atrocities easily excused

His humanity undone.


Escape seems not possible

From hatred so arrayed

Dissed, dismissed, denounced, disposed

Where is the White to stay?


In his lands and neighborhoods

Built with ancestral hands

Darkness comes on millions’ feet

All across the land


In his house no peace resides

As the jungle calls his young

MTV, rap rhymes, sexting, Web porn

Evils abound full flung.


At work where skill should rule,

For him it never reigns

Handouts go to other’s kin

His whiteness but a stain.


In government where law should rule

White finds comfort’s not the way,

Those who hate him have full sway

Seeking his final fall to his dismay.


In church, for sure, the house of God

Peace should come at last

To find the comfort of the Lord

Whose love’s beyond skin cast.


Yet at church, it brings least peace

As White is often told

It’s in his whiteness the sin lies

He must embrace the fold.


Is this embrace like brothers

in God’s spiritual family tree?

“No”, he’s told, “It’s not enough.”

To be Christ’s he must interbreed.


There is no peace when clad in White

No place to call his own

The U.S., Europe–all but gone

So darkly overgrown.


The Black gets to be a black

The Brown is just as free

But no matter what the setting is

The White may not white be.


The Lord made Earth a tapestry

Each kind unto its own

He brings the races to Him at last

To stand before the throne.


You see it’s not that we deny

Our brother’s humanity

But if they can revel in their kind

Why can’t we be as free?”


Copyright 2013 by Sidney Secular

Lament To Freedom

In a rare moment of inspiration and lucidity I wrote something that did not want me to throw it away after spewing out the words. I was thinking of the insanity going around in the West by governments now blatantly tightening control, how the average person will soon be choked from the iron fist around their neck. I wrote this poem in a matter of minutes without having to edit it, and feel I should not edit it when something like this flows so freely. It is a snapshot of that moment.

I call it a poem for convenience and a lack of alternative definition. It rhymes a little, it has a meter a little, it has a poetic truth a little. So here is some of a little:



Remember the bravery and honour

Of ancestors gone by

Forge your heart and arm

To steel and light

To shine and harden through the ages


Let the righteous anger

Boil to rage

Let the righteous light

Shine through the darkness

So your enemies are blinded and defeated

So the memory of your deeds

Are remembered by the poets of future

So your deeds are remembered by

The generations


There is no name except the name

Made for the generations

Made for the children

To honour and respect

Made for the women to respect and lament

Let their moistness

Inspire you


Raise with deeds of words and steel

Warriors of righteousness

Raise your flag

Plant your feet

Raise your steel

Harden your heart

Yell your cry

Let none take the generations away

Let none take your memory away


Poets sing your song

Remember the freedom

Granted by those of steel and light

Never forget your sacred duty


Farmers plant your seed

Nomads shepard your flocks

Scribes sharpen your quills

Smiths fan your forge

Priests light your incense

Life requires your diligence


Freedom will not leave our hearts

Lies will not silence our tongues

Deceit will not kill our honesty

Blasphemy will not still our faith

Murder will not stain our shields

Evil will blood our swords

Liberty will strengthen our arm

Our descendents will live free

Note: I had to insert the greater than signs for the breaks to be noticed.


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