The Birds Will Testify

     Birds aren’t real. You know this to be true.

    Frequencies spoken are the frequency healings of a quantum faith. Words spoken affect physical reality. But the mainstream media’s been hiding the real healing Meanwhile the chaos rings out of true. The owls, and all the birds, are winged spies. Drones controlled by the government. Special messengers of the FBI, feathered satellite communications. Winged algorithms and feathered frequency finders. Birds of a feather flock camera together.

    Do not curse the king, even in thought. Do not defame the rich. Do not slander the powerful, even in your secret rooms, for a bird of the air will carry the report. A winged messenger will replay your recorded conversations.

    Deep state drones. Avian robotics in the service of a paranoid tyrant with an Adderall addiction. Smartphone peacocks. National mascot eagle surveillance. A silver dove – a spontaneous utterance, a word in the now, softly spoken. A small white owl – symbol of holiness and sober prophets. A golden eagle – with long range forecasts and predictions. Robins predict the spring and Jays screech away the day. Meanwhile, Stormy Petrels are not found in central Iowa in July, especially Julys as warm as this one. And a cockatiel will repeat what it hears.

    The quantum energy of faith draws and attracts reality to us. Our faith affects the world around – even to the subatomic level. Atoms shiver and electrons shift and reconsider their orbits.

    Bad communications corrupt good behaviors. And vice versa. Remember: the owls are not what they seem. And do not forget: your secrets will be revealed. Your sedition will be exposed.

    I’ve seen buzzwords and buzzards standing, wings outstretched to face the morning sun. You’ve seen them – charging their batteries on power lines. How soon before they come for you?

    Ecclesiastes 10:20

Prophecy Cub Minutes 07.16.26

 

Prophecy Club
06.16.26
7:34 pm
First Bethel Baptist Church Basement

ATTENDANCE
Present Members: Brothers Haggai, Joel, Daniel, Jonah, Ezekiel, Micah and Agabus
Guests Present: There were no guests.
There was a quorum present.

ORDERS OF BUSINESS

The meeting opened with our standard invocation: “Open our eyes that we may see wonderful things in your law.” Open our eyes now, Lord. Amen.

The minutes of the previous meeting were read and entered into the record.

Unfinished Business

No unfinished business was conducted in order to allow extra time for Brother Joel’s special presentation.

New Business

Brother Joel was invited to give a special presentation for the 250^th anniversary of the United States of America concerning the USA’s role in biblical prophecy and the last days.

He began by informing us that the Curse of the Admiralty Law (pronounced in 1871) is being undone by President Trump, and that we are returning to the Common Law of the Land. The people of the nation have given their consent with shouting and festival and music, and that the required rituals have been observed by royalty as required. King Charles III and Queen Camilla observed the transfer of power during their visit earlier this year.

Brother Joel also reported that while the United States is not explicitly named by any of the biblical prophets, the USA does have a specific and important role to play in future events. He told us that the “Great Eagle” seen in John’s vision (Revelation 12) is none other than the US. It is obvious, he said. The eagle is the national emblem of the country. And that the United States will swoop in to rescue the woman (who is Israel) from the pursuing dragon (the devil).

Brother Joel further described a relatively obscure passage from the prophet Isaiah. “Go, swift messengers to a nation tall and smooth, a people feared far and near, a mighty and aggressive nation whose country is divided by rivers.” Brother Joel stated that this description is becoming increasingly accurate every week under President Trump. Every executive order brings us closer to the end. And that the increasing accuracy of the description is indicative of the nearness of the end times. “We will soon fulfill the prophet’s words, and ‘an offering will be brought to the temple on behalf of the people tall and smooth, feared far and near, the mighty and aggressive people.” (Isaiah 18:2 and 7)

Brother Agabus asked how this could be possible since there is no Temple – and thus no sacrificial system – in Jerusalem. Vigorous and extended discussion followed until Brother Ezekiel suggested that further discussion be moved to a special committee.

Brother Ezekiel reported that he’s been informed of a rival prophecy club meeting at the Assemblies of God church on Water Street. He has no further details, but he’s sure that they are “covered in filthy vomit.” Brother Jonah promised to investigate.

CLOSING

Brother Joel led us in the closing prayer: Lord, You are our refuge and fortress. Guard our hearts and minds. Protect us from demonic attack, physical harm, and emotional wounds. Keep us safe in the shadow of Your wings. Amen.

We will hold the next board meeting on 08.16.26 at 6:16 pm. The meeting will be a top-secret Strategy Briefing. The password will be: Watchman! Watchman! What time of night? And the countersign will be: Morning is coming, and night again. Do not share with nonmembers.

The meeting ended at 1:17 am

[Signatures of minute taker and board president]

You Promised

     Somewhere out in the eastern borderlands, far beyond the trek and ken of warlord kings, in a place cut off and separated – somewhere out in the steep shadows of a valley filled with death, outside and beyond the land of the living – Elijah, the Tishbite, the outlandish outsider, the temporary inmate, foreigner, prophet drank dirty water from a shallow brook.

    “Yah, my God,” he mumbled as he wiped his beard. “I’m hungry. And you promised.” He scanned the sky. No clouds. No birds. Nothing. “You promised.”

    Gone was his proper confidence. He was hiding. Self-discipline and hard work prepared, but here he was: alone and hungry.

    He knew the rebellion. The insult and dishonor of kings, the jealously of queens. False priests and cash for blessings schemes.

    “You promised. You promised,” he muttered.

    Anonymous whispers, rumor and scandal alliance. “Cut him off!” came the echo. “Cut him down!” The alarm. The horn.

    He heard it now. The alarm. The horn. The squawk and caw. Caw. The prophet looked skyward. Two ravens circled above. “You promised,” he sighed. One of the obsidian birds landed to his right. It hopped towards him twice and dropped a hunk of bread at his feet. The other landed to his left, hopped three times towards him, right up to his feet, and disgorged a ragged hunk of rancid meat.

    Elijah snatched up the bread and bit into it. He eyed the carrion flesh as he chewed. “You promised,” he said again around a mouthful of bread. He swallowed and took another bite. He could smell the cloying smell of rot. What had it been? Rabbit? Goat?

    Pig?

    “Yah, my God,” he mumbled. He swallowed the last morsel of bread and sighed. “You promised.” He knelt down and picked up the rotted meat.

Sunrise and Moonfall (Memento Mori)

The shadow of a bird 

flying up in the sky 

runs along the ground 

where there used to be a tree. 

Sunrise and moonfall, transitory. 

 Sparks fly up into

 the cold of the night, 

 a baby takes a breath 

 and her mother says goodbye. 

 Sunrise and moonfall, transitory. 

 Memento mori. 

A Magnolia tree 

pink and white 

loses all its blossoms 

in the rainstorm overnight. 

Sunrise and moonfall, transitory. 

 I’m not ready 

 for the rain to stop just yet,

 I’ll continue walking 

 though I am getting wet. 

 Sunrise and moonfall, transitory. 

 Memento mori.

It’s a song I wrote as I carried mail yesterday and today. 

Sunday Goose

The Owls Are Watching

The rain turned gradually to snow, happily without becoming sleet or slush, and his family returned from Minnesota without incident. It had been, all said and done, a safe trip – with or without his bromidic words. He was pleased. He was content. The holiday season had been pleasant, quiet. Everything was fine, except for the birds. 

A secret communication had come to him on the air, in binary code through the electronic ether: “The owls are not what they seem.” It was an older code, to be sure, but he recognized the sender.

The owls, and all the birds, in fact, were not what they appeared to be. None of them were real anymore. None of them were birds. During the Reagan administration, when he himself had been only a boy, the birds had bene replaced. They were systematically eliminated all across the nation and replaced with surveillance drones disguised as avian creatures.[1] From the peristeronic drones monitoring metropolitan cities to the buteonine wings swooping over the fields of the heartland, from the larine eyes watching ships in the harbors, to vulturous observers over the deserts, the entire country was being watched. Everywhere. But the birds, the real birds, were nowhere.

Hitchcock saw this coming. He tried to warn us. Lynch understood and tried to tell us. But we were merely entertained; we failed to understand.

Now it should be understood that neither Jesus nor the early Christians were communists or socialists. Not as we would use the words. They did not have a developed economic theory. They did not use the dialectic process to understand the movement of history. To call them socialists or communists would be something of an anachronism. But they were, in a broader sense, communal. Something akin to communists, they shared what they had one with another. And for this reason, they - both Jesus and the early Christians – are despised by contemporary American Evangelical Christians. Philip K Dick would have understood this. He would have seen it.

It was for this reason that the Evangelicals, acting as willing (eager, even) agents of the Black Iron Prison, sent back through time a mechanical spy of their own. Using an artificially generated time slip, the Evangelicals sent a feathered informer back to the Roman Emperors to spy on their treasonous forbears. You remember Hephaestus’ mechanical owl in Ray Harryhausen’s movie The Clash of the Titans, right?  You thought it was only an amusing fiction. Harryhausen understood even if you did not.

These feathered observers, these “democracy enhancers” were considered a matter of national security, but for obvious reasons were kept secret from the general public. What we mean to say is that there is no difference between terrorism and counter-terrorism. No difference except a name. It doesn’t matter what the voters want. It doesn’t matter what the population desires. The mob, the “great beast” will be controlled. The irritable dark waters will demoralize anyone who attempts to look too closely.

---

[1] This program of avian surveillance was initiated when President Ronald Reagan failed to get the support he wanted for his Strategic Defense Initiative. Where the “Star Wars” program was mocked and openly ridiculed, the CIA went quietly about replacing the American bird population with bird shaped spies.

Bromidic Words of Power

“Have a safe trip,” he texted to his wife. He’d gotten up early to be at work by 5:30 that Saturday morning. His wife and children left the house sometime later, on a short trip to Minnesota to visit family. He would have gone, but work has its own demands that sometimes take precedence over family and, he sighed, it pays the mortgage and the college tuition.

“Have a safe trip.” Was he instructing her? “Have a safe trip.” Was he giving her polite, but needless advice? Polite at best; condescending at worst. She would, of course, drive safely. She didn’t take risks, especially with the kids in the car. She didn’t speed; she maintained a safe distance between her and the other vehicles on the road. But so much depended on things outside of her control: weather, road conditions, other drivers, even animals… How would his instruction (?) advice (?) cover all of that?

Or was it perhaps something else? Could it be an ancient, forgotten, dormant – but still potent – magic? Could it be that by saying the words, “have a safe trip,” he was unconsciously attempting to influence reality. Those words, as common and ordinary as they were, banal and bromidic, were words of power. Words, spoken aloud, have an essential ability to influence the course of reality, to affect the universe.

He remembered his mother scolding him when he was a boy for chanting, “fall, fall, fall” as his younger brother rode his bicycle without training wheels for the first time. “Don’t say things like that,” she said. “It might happen.” She believed that words had power, and she was afraid of that power. She feared for the safety of her boys.

Work went quickly, as quickly as work will go on a Saturday. And second shift came in early, so he was home a couple of hours earlier than he had expected. He showered and changed, went out for lunch and a beer, and bought some groceries. It was raining. It was warm enough for rain on that late December mid afternoon. But it wasn’t the rain that held his attention as he loaded the groceries into the back of his car, nor the relative warmth. It was the birds that held his gaze. Perched on the telephone wires and lamp posts he saw three, no four different birds.

He saw a silver dove – like a spontaneous utterance, like a word in the now, softly spoken. He saw a small white owl – a symbol of holiness and sober prophets. He saw a golden eagle – and thought of long range forecasts and predictions. He saw that it was something more than just the weather report for next weekend, beyond predictions of who would win the next presidential election; the eagle was more than all of these. And he saw a bird that he could not identify. If he could have identified it, he would have been surprised for Stormy Petrels are not found in central Iowa in December, even warm Decembers like this one.

He put the last of the groceries in the car and looked again at the birds, but now they were ravens. All of them. Black winged ravens and crows, perched on top of the car, on the roof of the grocery store, on the telephone wires, on the lampposts, in the street. He drove home, and saw ravens and crows on his front stoop. There may have been, he wasn’t sure, something to be seen in all those birds. Could those strange loops and swirls of flocking birds have been evidence of massive government malfeasance? 

He didn’t think so, but…

A Trip to KC

Last weekend my wife and I took a trip to Kansas City. The kids are gone; we can travel - so we went. Here are a few of the photos I took.

Sekwi, The Rooster that Sees

Blessed art Thou, o Lord, our God, King of the World, who gives the cock intelligence to distinguish between day and night. – Jewish Prayer

A thunderous reverberation breaks the sky. Vainglorious and ignorant philosophers – tedious men with tedious advice – scatter. They abandon their discourse; they desert their still incomplete theodicy (for all theodicies are incomplete), leaving only a man with his grief and his questions. Rain falls from the cracked ceiling of heaven. Lightning scurries across the sky, “Here I am. Here I go. I am gone.”

Then Sekwi, the Rooster that Sees, lifts his eye, his comb, his beak and speaks, while far away, in the remote place, the sacred Ibis, Thoth, announces the flooding of the Nile. There is wisdom here, I suppose. Wisdom and understanding. But not for me.

(Job 38:36)

Even the Sparrow

The little country church of Alula, Iowa (population 543) looked like any other country church in Iowa, and, indeed, like those scattered across the heartland of America.  Pastor Chad stood on the concrete steps, hand on the black iron railing, noting its familiar rectangular shape, its neat spire rising from the roof above the front door, and the tidy graveyard adjacent with headstones dating back to the early 1800s. The chapel exterior, like all other chapels of its type, was painted white with black shutters for the windows.  'And the paint's not flaking away', he noticed; the congregation of this chapel in Alula, Iowa had not let the building fall into disrepair. Which is why Pastor Chad was so shocked when he opened the front door and stepped into the building.

Pastor Chad admired chapels such as this, and he liked to stop and visit them when he travelled. He carried his camera with him and photographed their pews and pulpits, their simple stained glass windows and solid wooden doors. He photographed them both for nostalgia and delight, for historical documentation and aesthetic appreciation. On this trip, Pastor Chad had arranged to be met by one of the local deacons, who would tell him something of the history and charm of this unique, but wholly familiar country church.

The clean and unremarkable exterior of the building however held a surprise. Inside, along the ceiling and tucked into the corners, in the windows and joists were bird nests – wattled walls with twigs and branches and bits of string and straw.  Sparrows and swallows and other birds he could not immediately identify – finches, perhaps, and was that a raven cawing above the altar? – flittered and flew about the room. It was more rookery than sanctuary.

Clutching his chest, Pastor Chad turned to retreat. 

Back outside again, with the fluttering of wings contained discretely behind the doors, Pastor Chad was greeted by the local deacon, dressed in jeans and blue work shirt. He wore a tattered John Deere cap on his head. “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “We had some difficulties with one of our cows this morning, but all’s right now. You’ve seen the chapel, I take it?”

“Yes. It’s… It’s…” Pastor Chad stammered.

“It’s really something,” the deacon beamed.

“It’s full of birds!” Pastor Chad exclaimed.

“Just like the good book says.” The deacon’s grin widened.

“Just like the good book…? Whatever do you mean?”

The deacon’s grin faltered a bit; his eyes narrowed. “Like the psalmist says…”

“The psalmist!?” Pastor Chad interrupted.

“Psalm 84,” the deacon explained. “O God, living God, even the sparrow finds her home in your house, and the  swallow a nest for herself where she may put her young, O LORD of hosts, my God and my King.”

Yaw and Nothing More

Jess had been driving for hours, long hours, and the steady hum of the asphalt beneath the tires, and the endless, unchanging Midwest landscape, and the warm, stuffy air inside his late-model car with a marginally functional A/C began to lull him towards sleep, into an unblinking hypnagogic state of highway hypnosis.

He began to dream as he drove.

He dreamt of lazy summer stars falling through hazy, crepuscular skies, of chanting pilgrims in dusty robes and worn sandals on their way towards the sacred shrine of their god on the other side of the horizon, of inoperable problems, of photographic rotations and long-distance replacement parts…

…and all this was interrupted by a rumbling vibration and dull growl as he and the car drifted over onto the shoulder of the road at 80 miles per hour.

“Shit!” he shouted as he swung the wheel back to the left.

“Yaw!” squawked the blue-black raven sitting next to him in the passenger seat.

“Shit!” he shouted again. "Am I still dreaming?”

“Yaw!” the raven said again and Jess wondered if it was a response to his question.

***

Hours later, several long hours later, Jess had grown comfortable with the strange bird sitting next to him. The bird was a comfort. The bird was someone to talk to.

“There’s this guy at work,” he heard himself saying to the raven, “a real anus, a whoreson if ever there was one.” The raven shifted back and forth on his thin, scraggy feet, but didn’t judge. Jess continued, “I hate that bastard.”

The raven twisted his head towards Jess. “Yaw.”

“Yeah.” Jess agreed. “It’s something more than workplace aggravation, or interpersonal irritation.”

“Yaw.”

Jess sighed and then said, “If he hadn’t slept with my wife, then I wouldn’t want to kill him.”

“Yaw,” said the raven, and nothing more.

Biblical Limericks: An Apocryphal Guy

Tobit was an apocryphal guy,

while he slept a bird shat in his eye;

his sight and vision failed

so he cried, and he wailed,

and he prayed to God that he might die.

Tobit 2: 1 - 3: 6

The Sunflower Thief

The Sunflower Thief

Afternoon Sunflower Delight

I am sitting in the back yard, in a slightly uncomfortable chair, in the shade of a maple tree. The chair might be a bit awkward, but my legs are long and most chairs are ill-fitting. Besides, the book I am reading is entertaining and compelling, and the hum of the bees and the songs of the birds all around is pleasant. It is warm, but not overwhelmingly so; it is a very pleasant and pleasing August afternoon.

The neighbor’s cat (a black tom named Scamper) approaches me. He prowls the neighborhood, roaming through the yards, jumping fences, doing whatever it is that freewill, free-range felines do during the day. He stops by to insist himself against my leg, purring. He flicks his tail to invite me to stroke his back and to rub his head – until he is done. Then he strikes with teeth and claws and an intimidating hiss, but only enough to say, “I’m outa’ here.” He does not draw blood. He leaves the way he came, but he’ll be back again later. When he wants to. Or not.

A little white moth (of what variety I do not know) stumbles around the yard – drunkenly, up, down, forward, side, never in a straight line from anywhere to anywhere. Dip, lift, light, flight, away it goes.

Birds are eating the sunflowers that I planted in my backyard garden. A bright flash of sunlight and shadow dives into the flowers– a goldfinch light enough to lite on the leafy branches pecks with a tiny pointed beak into the dark circle centers of my flowers. Busted seed shells are scattered down below in the dirt. He doesn’t notice me watching him, watching him lean and twist to reach the seeds, then flit and flutter and shake to crack them open. He doesn’t notice me watching the empty seed husks fall. But I see him.

Perhaps if I were a professional farmer, a sunflower farmer, dependent upon a good crop of seeds to sell, I’d be distressed by this thievery. But I’m not so I’m not. I grow these flowers for the challenge and the delight of seeing them grow. And for the delight of watching bees and birds flying in and among them.

The backdoor opens to let the dog out for a bit. She’s an eleven year old Great Dane, once bounding with energy and a sleek black coat, now slow and grey and white in the face. But she still loves to be outside. The seed stealing goldfinch is startled and takes flight, swooping up into the branches of the maple tree above me.

I see great bomber bees, fuzzy yellow zeppelins, bumbling back and forth among the dinner plate blossoms – bomber bees that live not in a hive, but in a hole in the ground (I’ve followed them. It’s a hole in the ground near the air-conditioner unit). I see Yellow Jacket wasps, and Hoverflies – which look like bees but are not, as well as that flashy yellow goldfinch – returned with his slightly duller hued female companion (no less glorious in her muted colors) now that the dog has lay down in a shady corner of the yard, far from the sunflower buffet. 

I’ve also seen, to my surprise (and delight) humming birds eating at my sunflowers, ruby throated, green lighting darts darting in to feed on fresh brewed sun tea, sweet tea, sweet sunflower nectar, which must be the ambrosia of Helios himself. There are orange and black butterflies too, floating among the blood-red-soon-to-turn-deep-yellow heads. They are the majestic monarchs of a disappearing kingdom.

I complained last summer of the squirrels who snicked the heads off my sunflowers in order to snack on the seeds, but I wasn’t really upset. This too the way of the world; the squirrels, too, are a delight.

I don’t know if my sunflowers will help preserve the bees and the butterflies. Perhaps their declines are already too far gone. This is the way the world ends - not with a bang, not in fire, not in ice as some folks will say, but in futility -in the buzzless despair of unpollinated futility. The world will be a sorrowful place when the bees and butterflies are gone forever. So I delight in them if and while I can.

There Was Fun for All

Over the weekend, I took photos at an outdoor summer carnival. There were games, and prizes, and candy, and popcorn, and inflatable amusements, and water balloons. There was fun for all.

A Haiku – June 5, 2016

red winged blackbird perched
in purple orange twilight
ignores the highway

Backyard Robin

I don't particularly care for robins; I think they're ugly birds.  Even so...

I Learned that Song in Canada

This one is for my little friend, "The Quotable Becca," who has never been to Canada.

At Lake Michigan with the Family

Over the weekend (a long weekend: Thursday-Monday) our family took a family trip across the country. We drove from Iowa to Ohio to visit a couple of colleges that our daughter is interested in attending. On the way home we stopped, on Sunday, in Toledo, OH to visit my brother and sister in law and their daughter; we spent the day with them at the zoo. Then, earlier today, we stopped for about an hour at the dunes along Lake Michigan.

Midnight Cardinal

The local high school mascot is illuminated at night.