YET, WHAT MIGHT THOSE 3 LITTLE LETTERS [i.e., NRA]...

Repellent

Automatons?

Obama's the more noble 'renegade'... in my opinion.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tu4wWSbnIs 

AS THE POPE PROCEEDS ALONG 5TH AVENUE....

 (ˌtɪntɪˌnæbjʊˈleɪʃən)

n

1. (Music, other) the act or an instance of the ringing or pealing of bells

ˌtintinˈnabular ˌtintinˈnabulary ˌtintinˈnabulous adj

He is wary of the powerful and

admires men/women of principle...

(and so do I).

“A people that values its privileges above its principles soon loses both.” 

IS THERE A CASTLE IN YOUR DISTANT PAST?

This particular subject came up at dinner this very evening. This happens to be my son-in-law's lineage:

The remains of Ballylahan Castle are located close to the River Moy in the  parish of Straide. The castle was built by Jordan de Exeter in 1239 when he was  the Anglo Norman Sheriff of Connacht, and ancestor of the Clan Siurtain Gaileng/Mac  Siurtain.

He built the castle of Ballylahan on the present junction of the N58 and R321  for his reputedly demanding and domineering wife.

It overlooked Athlethan, or Straide, where he built an abbey for the Franciscans  but, at the behest of his wife, transferred it to the Dominicans in 1253.

Little evidence of what the castle looked like in its time is now left.

SORRY! FILTHY LUCRE DOES NOT "TRUMP" A HOMELY MUG IN A [MALE] JACK-ASS!

Admit it, the resemblance of the jerk-off above

is eerily similar to the pickled one in the mason jar !!!

The continued similarities are

downright AMAZING!!!!!!

Who's ready for dissection?

No hail to the chief for this *****, there's only one song that fits...

www.youtube.com/watch?v=tNBL5OMeuno 

DO DOGS HAVE SOULS?

The Simmering Soul

of a Dog Day Summer 

Upon my return...

Soaked in the salvaged balm

Of Dog Day'd summer succor;

Fruit  from the nectar of mere mortals

Withers 'neath the breeze

Of fragrant almond trees.

Petals, scarred-over and

Sacrificed, reap their penance;

Propitiation dies so leisurely

As July smiles in utter silence.

   

Soon, one spies an arid landscape

Imprisoned in the dried-out parchment

Of daylight's last stammer.

But cicadas still evolve;

And newly minted cocoons

In faraway places,

Take up a rhythm

To their own liking.

Yet, what is it about these summered days

That buoys up faint fortitude

Into enviable remnants  of honored homage?

The scorched barbed wire

Of tendered earthly labors,

Languidly melts away balmy nights

That are (still) far too short!

But do you not

Hear it?

The scent of  summer

Is mouthing  gentle platitudes

Newly worn and weary...

Somewhere, latitude and longitude

Reverse themselves:

Making ready plans

For a future escape.

Thus, when such time arrives,

(As it always does)

Count me among the mourning throngs.

And when I return,

Once more,

To the exhilarating premise

Of May-day nasturtiums

Grown swiftly from seed,

Sprinkle a bit of fairy dust

Among nature's unguent;

My time is getting shorter.

Poem written by L.P.-Grenn

copyright 2015