But One

I bow not to Allah,
I kneel not to God;
My mind is my master—
I fear no man’s rod.

Though others betray them,
Surrendering all,
Though others, in failure,
Feel safe while they fall,

Alone I am standing,
A man who is sure,
Sure will self-commanding
One egoist pure.

My love is for greatness,
to reach and to raise;
The life of my greatness
Is song all my days,

Through words made of sweetness
And joy set to rhyme,
In manhood’s completeness
Of high works sublime.

Though others look downward,
Close eyelids, not see;
Though others turn backward
On freedom to be,

I stand with arms outward,
Face full to the sun,
True man, who’s no coward,
Though I am but one.

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The Triumph of Islam

The year was 2060. It was a great year. The last infidel had been killed; the last 9 year old girl had been raped and made to prostrate herself before Allah; the last rebellious 6 year old boy thrown off a thousand foot cliff; the last gay man beheaded. The great Islamic Caliphate circled the globe. All modern technological achievements were made useless; equipment broke down and no one knew, or cared, how to fix it; farms stopped producing; food shortages were everywhere. But Islam was triumphant.

In America, in the ruins of the White House, several black-bearded Islamic imams stood in the now half oval office and discussed their victory. One said, “What do we do now?” Another replied, “We go out and see who is not following the Koran one hundred percent and we kill him.” “Yes,” cried the third man, “There will always be slackers, always someone to kill!” And they went out shouting “Allah Akbar!” and waving their machetes.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The year was 2070. The triumph of Islam continued in glory. No one was happy (thank Allah!)and most people were starving, but not to worry—there were not too many people left. In fact, in America there were only two groups of one hundred men and women each.

One of the leaders of one group said, while sharing with another a dried-up biscuit, “What do we do now?” The other said, “Those others aren’t as miserable as we are; therefore, they have betrayed Islam; they are infidels. We must kill them!”

After two weeks of insane slaughter on both sides one man was left alive. He thought to himself, “Allah is great. I am the caliphate!” After a few minutes he thought again, “What do I do now?” He looked around and saw a tall, 6-foot high rose bush standing by itself, with red, white and blue roses just beginning to blossom. IN a maniacal rage he leapt forth with his machete, shouting “Allah Akbar!” and proceeded to hack and hack and hack at the base of the rose-bush, until it toppled over on him, two long thorns piercing into his eyes. Then he rolled over and over in the muddy ground like a squealing pig, and that was the final triumph of Islam.

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There is no wind, yet no one sings;
It is too cold for cheering things.
The ice is thick, the snow lies deep,
And all the hills are sound asleep.

The snowman stands with bright red cap;
His hard black eyes don’t take a nap.
If he could think, what would it be?
“I love to see because I see.”

Two children rolled him down a hill;
They gave him life with their good will.
And now he waits the morning sun,
And tears of joy to watch them run.

They’ll shout his name, they’ll laugh aloud,
And come and hug him, very proud.
They’ll pack him fresh and smooth his brow,
Then add a smile with twigs somehow.

He’ll be so happy he will sing
In all their high imagining!
And then they’ll roll his wife to be,
That he will have glad company!

I wait and watch the dawning through;
I watch and wait for something new.
Another snowstorm’s coming fast,
And snowy men will have a blast!

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Self-Love and NO Love

The man who truly loves himself loves his un-restrained thought, speech, will and action; he holds his own judgment as all the approval he wants and needs; and he knows that whatever he earns, achieves, honestly acquires, belongs to him and to no other man.civilization is in its present crisis because there are too few men who truly love themselves.

The big lie of altruism is that a man can love others without loving himself. Altruists love no one. Altruism is all pretense, pretending and self-deception. It rushes blindly on, filling up abandoned minds and spirits with a dull and hollow emptiness, which is manifested in hysterical and inflated emotion and superficial righteousness.

“Love for something greater than yourself” is today’s common cry, which means only that other worthless selves have more worth than your worthless self. But a whole bunch of worthless selves is still worth nothing, and there is no greatness in it. it is fools gold. The man who throws away the only real nugget he’ll ever have—his self—is worse than a fool; he is a self-murderer.

Even worse than “live for something greater than yourself’ is the idea of “making the ultimate sacrifice.” This is commonly intoned as if it is the highest virtue. It is, instead, the deepest vice. It means to give up your mind, soul, breath and body to emptiness, death, nothing. Altruism tells you that you are worthless, then tells you that when you cease to exist you are of highest value. To whom? To those men still existing who are themselves worthless and who value nothing.

The Christian message that we must learn to love one another is wrong. Instead, each individual must learn to love himself. The savior of man is not one man with a mission, whom others follow, but each and every man as he lives for, fights for, and perhaps dies for, his love of his own life.

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Renata Tebaldi and Me

If the voices of singers sublime and supreme
Were up-gathered together in one perfect dream,
I would call it a loss if my singer weren’t there,
For the woman Tebaldi is rarer than rare.

When she sings I am ravished and have not a choice
But to listen and die in and live in her voice.
I’m consumed in her soaring, all enthralled by each note,
All my life’s a great morning of wonder a-float.

I’m as light as a wing when Renata does sing,
And I’m swept to a height to which no one can cling
But the lover, as I am, who beauty makes great
As he worships the glory of Tebaldi’s high state.
I’ve heard singers of songs who much joy give to day,
But Renata Tebaldi has rushed me away!

The magnificent radiant splendor of song
Is a-glow in her voice, in the joy of her strong,
As she fills with her spirit, sends out with each breath,
All the love of her towering life over death.

And I glide with her skyward, with her earthward fall fast,
While full steadied by softness that never will crash,
As in passion her power soars high and sweeps low
Where the deep heart of singing is triumph to know.

If alone on some isle I were banished for years,
With Tebaldi’s recordings I would feel me no fears,
But would listen with gladness and happy light weight
All a-float with Renata in heaven-earned state.

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O’er Valentine!

We’ve set our day of love, my dear,
At an uncommon time of year.
This February twenty-third
(Oh holiday that none have heard!),
When first we spoke that echo-word
That broke all barriers in two
When, looking, liking, through and through,
Our eyes-defying-eyes held true,
Made breath and lips make one thing—“You.”
Nor heart nor arrow caught us there,
No Cupid claimed, or bade us be,
We each did gaze on bravest fair
And mirrored love’s mortality.
Thus preciousness waxed rare as gold
And greater far than all things great.
The height of heights was ours to hold,
Our murmured thing a hymn elate.
We’d gathered time and beaten fate,
Out-climbing all the tides of state,
And now, as these last twelve days pass,
While on we walk through snowy grass,
I’ll sing your name as you sing mine,
With love that soars o’er Valentine!

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Who loves not outward beauty holds deep ugliness within,
Excuses all life’s failures and resents who strives to win.

But he who pleases ears and eyes with all that glows beneath the skies,
Has in his self a sovereign soul that sees its joy its own high goal.

The nihilist has nil within but wretched awareness of his sin—
His sin against his own life’s start when he knew joy in some small part
And damned himself for very fool, then acted as if he was cool
By putting down the good and pure, collecting laughs from those not sure.

But love of beauty is so strong it loves the love that loves so long,
And fuels the fire that cannot die in he who lives and loves the why—
The why that’s in his mind and will, that keeps him glad-creating still,—
A force of life that leaps and sings through civilization’s upward springs!

Who loves all outward beauty ’round has in himself a soul that’s sound.

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