The Commuter’s Ballad

The Commuter’s Ballad

Four hours a day, the wheels would turn,
Iron rails and engines burn.
Seven long years, the timetables lied,
While his patience wore thin with each jolting ride.

A paperback shield, his daily disguise,
Pages devoured as the landscape flies.
And sometimes a can, harsh comfort he knew,
Special Brew fizz to dull the view.

Strikes in the morning, delays in the rain,
The curse of the lost ticket, all for the train.
Bosses demanded he prove his worth,
While home pulled him back to the hearth.

“Be earlier,” they begged, as ambitions grew tall,
He balanced the scales, yet could not please all.
A soldier of steel tracks, bound to the fight,
Haunted by day, softened by night.

Yet love found its way through paper and pen,
Letters exchanged, again and again.
A long-distance promise, ink-sealed and true,
A whisper of hope on each carriage he knew.

So count all the hours, the rumble, the sway,
The man on the train still lives in the grey.
But hidden within the monotony’s strife,
Were words and a woman who shaped him a life.

The Moon-Hoax Hullabaloo

 

Oh, up in the sky where the Moonity-Moon glows,
In a silvery shimmer where nobody goes,
They said that we landed, those spacey folks did,
With rockets and suits and a helmet-flipped lid!
But Bart Sibrel, that fellow, with a wink and a frown,
Said, “Hold on, you star-dreamers, let’s slow this all down!”

In a Whirly-Whiz town called Truthity-Ville,
Lived Bart with his questions and curious thrill.
He looked at the pictures, the flags, and the dust,
And said, “Something’s fishy, I don’t give my trust!”
Did they hop on the Moon with a bounce and a zoom?
Or was it a stage with a big fakey-boom?

“Oh, the Moonity-Moon!” cried old Bart with a shout,
“They say that we went there, but I have my doubt!
The shadows are wonky, the starlight’s not there,
The flag waves like laundry in breezy old air!
Was it filmed in a room with a sneaky-dee trick?
A movie-set Moon with a clickety-click?”

The Spacey-Space Men in their shiny white suits,
Said, “Bart, you’re a grump with your hootity-toots!
We flew to the Moon, oh, we landed, we swear!
We bounced and we danced in the lunar-y air!”
But Bart shook his head with a giggle and grin,
“I’ll keep asking questions, let the truthity begin!”

In a Zoomity-Zoom ship, they said they did soar,
To the Moonity-Moon, oh, they swore and they swore!
But Bart with his magnifying glassity-glass,
Said, “Look at this film, it’s as fake as the grass!
The stars should be twinkling, the shadows should fall,
But this looks like a stage in a studio hall!”

Now the people of Earth, in a huff and a puff,
Said, “Bart, that’s enough of your doubty-old stuff!
We believe in the Moon, in the landings, the leaps,
In the astronauts brave and their spacey-dee feats!”
But Bart just kept giggling, with a wink and a nod,
“I’ll keep poking and prodding, though you think I’m odd!”

So if you’re in Truthity-Ville, by the Moonity’s glow,
And you wonder what’s real and what’s only a show,
Take a peek with old Bart, with his questions galore,
He’ll make you think twice, maybe thrice, maybe more!
For the Moonity-Moon holds its secrets, oh my,
And Bart Sibrel’s chasing the truth in the sky!

The Iron Law of Bureaucracy

 

The Iron Law of Bureaucracy

In an office quite stuffy, with memos galore,
Where papers pile high from the ceiling to floor,
There lived a grand Bureau, with desks in a row,
Where progress was promised—but ever so slow!

Now Jerry Pournelle, a wise, watchful chap,
Observed how it worked and then drew us a map:
He said, “Every group—be it business or school—
Will follow one Iron, unbreakable rule.”

For those who do work, who deliver and strive,
Will soon be outnumbered by drones who survive.
The drones love the forms, and the stamps, and the files,
The policies, processes, meetings, and trials.

They gather in councils, committees, and boards,
To shuffle the papers and polish the cords.
They talk and they chatter, they nod and they clap—
But none of it helps to fix holes in the map!

And soon the true workers, the doers, the bold,
Are drowned in the rules and the memos of old.
The Bureau protects the Bureau, you see,
And not the great work of delivery!

So if you should wander through cubicles gray,
Remember the Law in its Seussian way:
The more that they manage, the less that gets done—
Till work serves the Bureau, and not anyone!

The Bubble of Iron Thought

 The Bubble of Iron Thought

Upon the stage of trade a dream was set,
That half of mortal toil would melt away,
By engines wrought of code and iron thought,
Exponential in their climb to rule.

The merchants cried: Invest! for gold shall flow!
And princes of the market raised their hands,
Proclaiming future kingdoms built on sand,
While widows spent their mite on fleeting shade.

Yet time, that patient judge of mortal schemes,
Revealed the cruel jest: returns grew dim,
Each labor saved was swallowed by a snare,
As progress waned, a taper losing flame.

What once did promise wings to lift mankind
Now bore but leaden chains of false belief;
The halls of venture echoed hollow songs,
And ruined lords bewailed their vanished gains.

O folly, dressed in algorithms’ guise!
Thou art a bubble, fragile as the dawn,
And when thou burst, the dust of shattered hopes
Did choke the very air of human kind.

So mark this tale: that hubris is a stage,
Where men, in worship of mechanic gods,
Forget the pace of nature’s measured hand,
And write their ruin in their own despair.

The Pretender’s Reign

The Pretender’s Reign

They crowned him king, for he spoke like thunder,
Promising gold and a realm torn asunder
From all its ills—yet the roar they’d hear
Was a hollow bray to tickle the ear.

His mane was stitched, his coat was dyed,
His wisdom borrowed, his courage lied;
But the people cheered, for the tale was sweet,
And truth is dull when lies taste neat.

He built his throne on sand and straw,
Wrapped every flaw in pomp and law;
Till time, that patient, prying hand,
Pulled seams apart across the land.

And there he stood, no lion’s grace,
Just long ears flapping in disgrace;
A lesson carved for all who see:
Not all who rule are what they seem to be.

In the Shadow of Faith: A Poem

 In the Shadow of Faith: A Poem

In a home where the Latin Mass still reigned,
Where denim and doubt were both disdained,
A father preached of sin and doom,
Of Mary's reign and Satan's gloom.

He dreamt of Rome in ancient guise,
Saw modern Church through wary eyes.
With nine young mouths and barely bread,
He chased salvation, faith ahead.

From California's sun and dust,
To Portugal in hope and trust,
He dragged his flock through fear and fire,
Fueled by a holy, strange desire.

They wore long skirts, obeyed strict rules,
No movies, dances, worldly schools.
Each meal a prayer, each word a creed,
Each doubt a thorn, each thought a need.

But children grow and questions bloom,
In corners of a crowded room.
Veronica, with pen in hand,
Sought light where she could barely stand.

A memoir told with grace and sting,
Of love that clutched with clipped-back wing.
Of faith unbending, fierce, and raw,
Of breaking free from holy law.

Yet through the grief, she honors still
The man who bent to God his will.
For in the wreckage of belief,
There shines a quiet, aching grief.

Sonnet to the Inevitability of Nazi Comparisons

 Sonnet to the Inevitability of Nazi Comparisons

When reason’s tide doth grace our humble thread,
And gentle wit with measured voice is laid,
Yet lo, some knave, with logic all but dead,
Doth call his foe a tyrant, unafraid.

“Thou art as Hitler!”—thus the gauntlet thrown,
A foolish crown placed on a petty spat;
As if in digital courts ’tis widely known,
The victor’s found by memes and GIFs and chat.

O cursed fate, that every quarrel’s course
Must drift toward tanks and goose-steps in the rain,
Where history’s darkest, most malignant force
Is wielded for a parking space or bane.

So speak, ye jesters of the online hall—
For all are Hitler, if one scrolls at all.