Glib liars glide…

Glib liars glide and slide into the state,
Attracted by most gleeful thievers there,
Who pack their pockets with the gold of fools,
Who vote them in to be their slaving tools.
Deceit their principle, they worm their way
Into the pillars of once noble House
Where none are noted now but fiend and louse,
Where desecration is their duty to perform
And crisis made to seem men’s helpless norm.
These traitors of man’s brightest, freest day,
Grown blatant in their evil power-lust,
Will chew our House to crumbling bits of dust
Unless we name them for the worms they are
And stamp them out, or throw them very far.

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Men Clothe Themselves

Men clothe themselves in race who naked are
To hide not flesh, but souls inferior,
Whose undeveloped characters, so frail,
Seek other mindless bodies to prevail.
Alone, they barely quaver forth a song;
In crowds, they march, and shout how they are strong,
Demanding what they’ve not the strength to earn,
Lost, able-less, to ignorant to learn,
While in a mob they do destroy and burn,
Base race become cheap potency of wrong.
Their love of race is hate of rational mind;
Thin skin they glory in, leave self behind,
Till only brutish aim is theirs to gain,
Upon a faceless field where they lie slain.

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Follow The Light

“Follow, follow,”
The wind cries “Follow!”
Follow the light
Through the long dark night!

Follow o’er hill,
Follow through hollow,
Follow the gleam
Of the dream, and fight!

Fight for the flight
Of the free swift swallow;
Fight for the eagle,—
Symbol of right!

Keep your mind clear
Of the leftist’s jumble,
Hold to you dear
All your reason’s might!

Thought is your power,
You are its flower;
Rise in reality,
Lean out and hear,—

“Follow, follow,”
The wind cries “Follow!”
Follow the light
Through the long dark year!

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O Glorious Son

O Glorious son of man—another man!
Brought up to live in independence true,
To justly gauge each purpose you began
Responsible to no one but to you;
O dear inventor of the wheel-spun cart,
Fond singing speaker of poetic art,
Original painter of the frescoed wall
And mighty sculptor of brave hero tall,
With vig’rous praise and lasting high acclaim
Our tongues give cheer to honor thy bright fame!

O Sovereign man of men, our spirit pure,
Who all of us inspire to be our best,
To seek each day the dreams that shall endure,
And joy our selfish lives ere we go west,
If Aristotle’s happy man shall reign,
Serenity hold purchase over pain,
If honest thought shall lead our feet on straight,
With thee, O Man, we’ll fight the force of fate
And at the end, when death will come to seize,
We’ll laugh him down a loser to his knees!

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We, The Muses

The sacred muse of love now sings divine
As arms around each other we entwine,
Where lip on tender lip half whispers “Mine.”
Her strings of love do ravish so the air
Rare light runs quiv’ring in your glist’ning hair;
Her lyre’s echoes echo “fair, so fair.”
The sacred muse of love now sings so strong
That we are roundly bound where we belong—
Together, bright and right, and never wrong,
Together, one to one, till life does part,
As one in mind and spirit, one in heart—
Our sacred muse of life that we now start.
We are the muses of our happy day,
And we the song we live along our way.

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Not Inclined

Does man have will, or is he made inclined
To act against the dictates of his mind?
Does he have freedom’s tongue to speak his choice,
Or is he destined to keep mum his voice?
Does a cast tendency to socialize
Shoot him as pinball through a dull stoned crowd,
When he would stand alone, aloof and proud,
To wait their longed departure from his hill,
Where he can sit collected, calm and still?
He has few friends, nor many does desire;
He has the solitude of his creative fire,
And when he seeks a friend or two to see
No inclination is, no tendency,
But bare volition of his living wise.

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Model Life

Small yellow flowers in your hair;
Between your fingers long green grass.
You held the earth, it held you there;
And so you looked; I didn’t pass.
You sat there still and did not turn
As I, with pen, began to draw.
I thought my pad would surely burn
When I etched in the thing I saw.
O wond’rous world, O matchless sight!
So beautiful, and oh, so right!
The model of my life is pure,
And art within my heart is sure!

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