Saturday, December 17, 2011

FORMALDAHIDE

 
 FORMALDAHIDE
 
She had a wicked wiggle
And her name was Formaldahide
She went out with a guy named Willy
She came in on a minus tide
 
Oh so cute and cuddly
Fluffy like a little bear
Whenever Willy squeezed her
Formy did a dirty dare
 
She puckered up like this
Just like she did`nt care
Poor Willy was so in love
All he could do was stare
 
Willy had an ace up his sleeve
He had another girl called Deceit
Whenever Formaldahide met her
She almost nearly died
 
Because Deceit quickly told her
I`m his Moma !

WHAT TIME IS IT, REALLY ?

WHAT TIME IS IT,  REALLY  ?

WHAT TIME IS IT, REALLY ?

A Story by Eagle Cruagh

WHAT TIME IS IT,  REALLY ?
 
Back in the 1920`s Einstein fixed the
existence of time.  Well, almost.
 
He , Albert, worked out a formulae that
we have come to live by, E=mclittle2.
Maybe that is supposed to be big M,big
C squared---but, you get the idea.
 
In this formulae of Albert`s, gravity is the
biggee and it explains the small stuff.
 
Now it has been postulated that there are
or may be other kinds and forms of time.
Suppose there is more than our universe,
well, there may be forms of time for those
other universes, so we have to think small
in quarks, neutrons, strings and a bunch
of little stuff.
 
The question is,  how do we package those
little fella`s so that we can work with them ?
You know, measure them, weigh them, count
them and keep them in one place long enough
for all those operations to take place ?
 
So, along came guys like Edward Witten who
worked out this "Superstring theory".  See, my
computer is so old it don`t know how to spell
superstring yet.
 
Anyway, old Ed and a bunch of other physicists
deduced that you can string these little fella`s
together in a string, then you can fold the string
and you will have this bunch in a manageable
package.   The problem is time.  Time does not
like to be put in a package, so another group
decides to put the two ends of the string together
and Wallah,  time is now encapsulated so you
can work with it .
 
But----- we are just a figment of the creationist`s
nightmare and we have a lot of places where time
is not measurable yet.
 
So,  we have the string theory, but we have to keep
the ends of the string open, so just as soon as
we plumb these other universes and figure out
what kind of clocks they have we will then be able
to finish our little package of little fellas.
 
------ Eagle Cruagh

THUNDER OF THE BUTTE

THUNDER OF THE BUTTE

A Poem by Eagle Cruagh


THUNDER OF THE BUTTE
The wind blew and the snow flew
And the driving wind stung
Your bare face with sleet and snow
Thunder Butte lost in fog of storm
The crack of splintering trees
Over the sound of these
Came the roar of avalanche
Rocks and snow and ice
Which direction  where
When all is lost in white nightmare

Horses stumbling falling blind

Cowboys injured in a failing mind
Suddenly the sun appears
Just in time blazing through the white
A gift from God
Cattle fall into the  trail for home
Now it`s Christmas time
No time to roam
Just a mile or so to go
Merry Christmas !
-----Eagle Cruagh  
© 2011 Eagle Cruagh

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

SAINT CLOYSHUS FROM A LILY PAD

SAINT CLOYSHUS FROM A LILY PAD

A Story by Eagle Cruagh
"

A simple committee meeting

"
SAINT CLOYSHUS FROM A LILY PAD
 
Saint Cloyshus:  You have gathered here because
we have problems in our environment.
 
Mick:  You mean the world is warming ?
 
Milly: No, the information overload, silly.
 
Patrick:  The genome theory is irrelevant.
 
Saint Cloyshus:  I have called you here to explain
the problem and to decide what we must do.
 
Mick:  I have an itch.
 
Milly:  Well, scratch it, silly.
 
Patrick:  Are we going to protest ?
 
Saint Cloyshus:  We have lost our ability to love.
 
Patrick:  It`s the dang anti-gun activists, right ?
 
Milly:  Well scratch it , silly.
 
Patrick:  We will abandon Writers Cafe and start
over.
Milly, Mick and Saint Cloyshus:  Scratch it, silly.
 
Saint Cloyshus:  No, love is dead.
 
Milly: ---bleep----
 
Mick: What can be done ?
 
Saint Cloyshus:  You must go back to God.
 
Milly:  What`s God?
 
Patrick:  God is love.
 
Mick:  I beg to differ.
 
Milly:  I know, it`s the information over-load !
 
Saint Cloyshus:  We will all meet here at the same
time next month.  Be sure to bring reports from all
your committee`s at which time we will formulate
a workable report process to finalize this final
report epitomizing the finality of love.
 
Milly:  Yes !  We will all decide.
 
---- Eagle Cruagh
 
[Disclaimer:
No disrespect has been intended toward any person , group, or
their animals.
Milly simply was sitting in a mohair chair while wearing a
wool dress.
Saint Cloyshus probably was unaware of the diversity of his
population.
For these and any other intentions, discrepancies, or
over-sights , no fault of the writer or participants has
been intended.]
----- Eagle Cruagh

© 2010 Eagle Cruagh

SADDLE TREE

 
SADDLE TREE
 
Just a simple cowboy
Plain to see
I got myself some furniture
A brand new saddle tree
 
No good at rope`n
Not much good with Brahma`s
They dirty where you sit
Have to stick to horses
Well  stick`n is the trick
 
 The best  will get a saddle
If not I`ll  just get sawdust
When I  hit the ground
The saddle smells the best
And it gives me another goround
 
Then they picked me  that ole apaloosa
A sunfish`n sun of a gun
And I`m  still chase`n that durn saddle
I`m  jist an apaloosa bum
 
---- John Crowley
 

NIGHT ON THUNDER BUTTE CREEK

  NIGHT ON THUNDER BUTTE CREEK

NIGHT ON THUNDER BUTTE CREEK

A Poem by Eagle Cruagh
"

Panther tearing at the roof splintering boards, snarls, dark----

"
NIGHT ON THUNDER BUTTE CREEK

The blackness of the night wrapped around us like a shroud,
Clammy and evil, full of dreadful sound
The scream of woman with mortal wounds
Full of snickering , why ? I only wish to live the night
To not succumb in fear to this anguish all about

The creek called Thunder Butte, runs full and rippling in the dark
Forested thick with trees that screen the evil lurking there
There eyes glow fierce , then disappear amid the undergrowth
But howls persist , like the banshee of legends mark
She comforts me , but trembles as the panther tears and rips
The splintering roof , starved and after one fat child.

I`m crying now, and clutch my mom, the one protection from
This demon of the night who will not stop until he`s done, but
A little shanty ranch house can`t withstand the onslaught of this mad gargoyle tearing there , one thought in mind, only one
This fat child and why he fears the dark.

My mother not yet done, grabs an old and rusty 12 gauge gun from
Beside the bed, one loud explosion , blasting these little ears
Another hole appears , the moon shines through our flimsy roof
Where panther and twelve gauge spanned the years , to spell  out doom for that old puma, sobbing , snarling off Into the gloom
 
----- Eagle Cruagh





THUNDERBUTTE TRAIL DRIVE

 THUNDER BUTTE TRAIL DRIVE

THUNDER BUTTE TRAIL DRIVE

A Poem by Eagle Cruagh
"

Thunder and lightening, horses, mud and cattle. The way it was

"
THUNDER BUTTE TRAIL DRIVE
 
Lightning flashed and crackled across the plain
Lighting steers and horses mane
Thunder peeling off the clouds hit
Thunder Butte bounced and rocked as another
Bolt of lightning struck

In pelting rain and dark of night wind
Howling down again the lightning lit
The trailing cattle and struggling men
Who dank and tired worked on in vain
To just make camp despite their pain

As another bolt of emerald fire lit up
The butte and miles of empty desolate space
Tel-tales danced and sparked along the
Herd leaping fairy froth from horn to horn
And back again to lick across the horse`s mane

This night spawned in some devil`s brain
Grew steadily cold and wet and wild
The howling wind thunder born
Spoke about the need of man
To bridge destructive mean for one more
Notch in our human dream

Bawling calves their mother`s lost
Bellowing mad the old gal`s best yet to tear
The squatter`s dream with horn and hoof
As always aloof to the cowboy`s need
Another bolt of static blue sprinkled across
A dead black sky rent by steaming canon bleeds

A muddy horn in the pony`s gut the wrangler curse
Down he`s gone amidst the herd just a groan
And you are all alone
In this cursed rain with clouds of ink the wrangler died
Alone and cold as nature howled and claimed her own

-----   Eagle Cruagh 


 

© 2009 Eagle Cruagh