Friday, May 24, 2019

A Joy In Existence - A Poem by M.N. Hopkins



Words

You are given words 

That ring true

That sing and dance

And

Touch to the very heart of one's existence

One's essence as a human being

These words come as a gift

To be given

To all who will receive them

So, that they too

Can sing and dance 

And

Touch to their very hearts

Bringing a calmness

Bringing a certainty

Bringing with them

A joy in existence

So

Delight in this gift

Hear the sweet music

That will move you

To sing

To dance

To open your hearts

To a joy in existence

©  2019    M.N. Hopkins

Note:   This poem was inspired and written after a period of prayer and quiet  contemplation  yesterday in a free verse style of poetry and published on my blog for the first time today, the 24th of May,  2019.  I will leave any interpretations to the reader.   For,  I do not wish to interfere with their own internal processes that I hope will activated while reading this poem.

If you wish to read more of my poetry, please click on the link provided below:

https://www.poemhunter.com/michael-hopkins/

Thursday, May 23, 2019

I Distrust The Extremes - A Quotation from Frank Herbert


Safaris through ancestral memories teach me many things. The patterns. ahhh, the patterns.  Liberal bigots are the ones who trouble me the most.  I distrust the extremes.  Scratch a conservative and you find someone who prefers the past over the future.   Scratch a liberal and find a closet aristocrat.  It's true!  Liberal governments always develop into aristocracies.  The bureaucrats betray the true intent of people who form such governments.  Right from the first,  the little people who form such governments which promised them to equalize the social burdens found themselves suddenly in the hands of bureaucratic aristocracies.   Of course, all bureaucracies follow this pattern, but what a hypocrisy to find this even under a communized banner.    Ahhh,   well,  if patterns teach me anything it's that patterns are repeated.   My oppressions, by and large, are no worse than any of the others and, at least, I teach a new lesson.

THE STOLEN JOURNALS

This quotation is from p. 168 of the book,  God Emperor Of Dune by Frank Herbert.

Wednesday, May 22, 2019

Your Trust Is Misplaced - A Poem by M.N. Hopkins

Political Theatre


You have been deceived

You will be deceived again

Your trust is misplaced

©  2019    M.N. Hopkins

Note:   This poem was inspired while thinking of the EU elections and all the tax funds spent to continue these myths of democracy in the EU.   It is all theater to entertain and deceive the public.  The candidates who will win are know ahead of time and appointed by the parties.  We have placed our trust in Governments and politicians rather than in ourselves.  I wrote this poem in the haiku form of poetry and published it for the first time today, the 22 of May,  2019. 


Friday, May 17, 2019

Be As A Tree - A Poem by M.N. Hopkins



Men will try you

Some unjustly

Some with justice

Naught will come of it

For they have no authority

No real power

For they are as leaves upon the grass

Fallen from above

Dry and devoid of life

Waiting to be blown about by whatever wind crosses their path

Aimlessly drifting

Never finding a home

Be as the tree

Strong and firmly attached to the Earth

With deep roots which extract nourishment from below

And limbs and branches and leaves which reach to the heavens

Yes

Be as the trees

Patient, strong and stable

Communing with Heaven and Earth

Unconcerned by events around them

Knowing that even in death

They will continue to nourish the Earth

And

Serve a purpose

Even

Long after they are gone

©  2019    M.N. Hopkins

Note:   This poem was inspired and written in a free verse style of poetry yesterday and published for the first time on my blog today, the 17th of May,  2019.

If you wish to read more of my poetry, please click on the link provided below:

https://www.poemhunter.com/michael-hopkins/

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

Sunrise Of Sirius - Written by the Dark Knight


Sunrise over Sirus
Morison's cargo ship was destroyed today.
His loyal crew burned down together with it. They fought to the last, refusing to surrender, shredded by frigate cannons in Sirius's Prime lower orbit. He was now stranded here; a weapons trader without the means to procure merchandise and with a pocket full of credits that he couldn't use. Those damned pirate clans! The bastards, he suspected were getting plenty of help from the Taz'aran Empire and now, after the destruction of his starship, Morison was sure of it! The holes-for-ears were selling supplies to the Clanners in bulk. Moreover, they deployed their own troops on the planet and had secured large parts of it for themselves. Their "Imperial army" not only guarded the backs of the Clanners, but they also fought side by side with them!
This whole invasion was made possible thanks to their supply chain and starship patrols, who turned the job of people like him into a living nightmare. Punching through a blockade like that wasn't something he was unaccustomed to, yet each time it became harder, till this day, when his boys and girls were lost. As a Terran, Morison cared much for his friends and family, as sometimes the border between those was non-existent. And again as a human, he had the duty to make sure all of his race's uplifted clients were safe and free from oppression. He was a merchant of Life; Morison's job was to provide quality merchandise for a low price - as low as he could manage after his "traveling" expenses. He was a trader specializing in all types of small arms, armored vehicles, light or medium tanks, APC's, and even mobile railgun artillery units. His entire shipment lost, destroyed together with his starship and crew. With a sad sigh, Morison walked away from the improvised, marked with flares landing zone and back to his colonist friends, to whom he gave their money back. After all, without delivering them the promised merchandise, he couldn't demand payment. He was not some filthy alien scumbag, who'd prey upon the unfortunate, pilfering their hard earned credits.
"I am sorry Morison... we... we didn't know the Taz'arans had deployed another patrol frigate in the sector. If we did..."
"Do not bash yourself, nobody could anticipate things like that. Now, tell me what do you want me to do for you gran Klarissa?"
The frail-looking old woman was actually one of the colonists chosen to oversee supplies and deal with people like him. She got all of the money that each had donated to the cause and haggled with traders for better deals on vital supplies and equipment needed for the war effort. Smiling, she poked his gut and then asked:
"Well sonny, if ya' can, do something about this one." - She pointed at the nearby earthworks garage, where, heavily damaged, stuck out the silhouette of a strange looking tank. Eyes squinting, Morison noticed that there were a couple of confused kids wandering around it, desperately trying to fix the war machine. From the looks of it, none of them was older than thirteen or fourteen. From this distance the youth's desperation was apparent - perhaps they indeed had mastered many survival skills, although vehicle repair was not one of them. Morison shook Klarissa's hand and rolled up his sleeves. The vehicle specialist walked quickly over and inspected the wreck from up close. Soon he was scratching his neck, looking around - where was the tank's crew?
The kids stepped aside when Morison walked near; the looks in their tired, baggy eyes, told him they were at a loss of what to do. Moreover, he saw blood. A broken human limb stuck out of a hole ripped directly into the tank's side armored hull. Morison carefully climbed the vehicle and through its opened hatch looked inside, inspecting the carnage. The mangled bodies of three women were splattered all over the vehicle's cabin and he reluctantly reached down - that was a grizzly job but someone had to do it. Being an arms dealer, he'd seen plenty of death throughout the years, while traveling from one battlefield to another. The merchants of Life had to be on the front of it, always. Otherwise, how could the invaded defend themselves against the invader if they lacked the capabilities to craft heavy equipment of their own?
Hours later Morison and the young boys had somehow managed to fix all internal damage and even patched the tank's armor plating. A couple of scans later and he realized that this machine was not a superbly crafted vehicle of war. He was, of course, told of the story - the engineer who was sick and managed to build it by himself before finally dying. Everyone knew what the tank's faults were and they compensated for them in battle. Morison entered the vehicle for the last time this day, and activated its mainframe, he heard the voice of that dead engineer. The tank's VI was programmed with his vocal patterns:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
The boys loaded it with whatever meager supplies they had on hand and an hour later, Morison called grandma Klarissa to report that his job was done. Turning around but for a minute he heard the booming rumble of the tank's Tesla engine and screaming, ran after it. The three boys, after manning the vehicle were now rushing toward the front lines...
No matter how much he shouted, they didn't stop and the tank's silhouette soon disappeared beyond the reach of his vision. Angry and exhausted, Morison grabbed a blanket and after chugging down a bowl of plain vegetable soup, lay down to get some sleep.
Sirius rose on the horizon and Morison was awoken by a loud, screeching sound - metal was clanking with metal. Next to the garage he'd slept in, a large eight-wheeler truck, equipped with a heavy crane was dragging the very same tank that he'd spent his entire previous day fixing. It was hit again, this time in the turret, and the thing was somehow miraculously not blown to bits. One glance inside and Morison saw the kids corpses - the crew of that vehicle was not that fortunate as the vehicle itself. Grandma Klarissa gave him a somber look and again nodded in the direction of that tank. Morison climbed in and slowly, his hands twitching, removed the bodies from the tank's cabin. He carried them over to the grave detail waiting outside his improvised garage. Comprised of even younger kids, the biggest of whom was no more than eight years old, the somber group dragged one bloodied bag. Evidently, the colonists lacked even spare bodybags and had to re-use what was left again and again. Soon the clank of shovels and heavy, tired breathing, echoed from behind the earthworks garage. Little kids lacked the strength to dig deep, so they shoveled dirt on top of the lying on the bottom of their now useless trenches, bodies. Grizzly, but they had no other choice...
Before hosing the insides of the wrecked machine, Morison saw a bloodied number 6, painted on the side of the tank's holo-sight. Hours later, after fixing the tank's VI he understood - its crew had noted kills when their mainframe stopped working, hit by a missile. The memory of their machine had remained intact though. With awe Morison noted that the crew's tank kills were 14, making its total for that day and night 20! Before going to sleep again and after fixing the hole in the tank's turret, he checked if the VI was completely operational. Pushing the power on switch, it chimed in, again with the cheerful voice of that engineer:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
Morison's heavy feet dragged him to the closest soup tent, where a one-handed bunny fed the wounded and tired militia with one bowl of soup and a loaf of rye bread each. The man sat on a burned log and hands shaking, tried holding on to the bowl but he was so tired that he dropped his spoon, spilling some of the precious soup. The bunny, a dutiful client, came and picked up the spoon. Pulling another, clean spoon from her pocket, she quietly sat next to him.
"Patron, what is your name? I am called Glory."
"Morison, my name is Morison." - He offered his shaking hand and held the bunny's only, bandaged paw. The client looked at him with her sad smiling gray eyes and filled her spoon with soup. 
"Come on! You worked off your hands to the bone to fix 'Defiance'. The least I can do is feed you, Patron."
"But, your hand... doesn't it hurt?"
The bunny smiled and filled another spoonful of soup. Morison relaxed his aching arms and let himself be spoon fed by the one-handed bunny.
Sirius's sun rose on the horizon and Morison woke up hunched on that very log, body wrapped with some hole-ridden thermal blanket. In the distance, he heard the same, dreadful metallic screeching - evidently, during the night somebody had crewed the tank again. Looking around Morison couldn't locate that eight-year-old boy and teeth gritting, the weapons merchant climbed the tank again. It was as he had suspected - that kids of the funeral detail were there, their eyes open, looking directly at him. Morison, mobilizing all of his sanity and strength to continue doing what became his constant duty. The day slowly dragged on. With the help of one other human, who had some minimal repair skill and the bunny Glory, Morison again patched up the tank. Despite the loss of her limb, the bunny nevertheless helped a lot with her very fast and precise footwork. Carrying odd pieces of salvage for Morison to try and fashion replacement parts for the tank and soon the vehicle was operational again. The day passed, and Morison again pushed the mainframe switch on:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
He basically collapsed next to the tank due to extreme exhaustion. Woke up next morning greeted by Sirius's sunrise. In the distance, he saw the eight wheeler crane dragging behind it 'Defiance'. Out from the blown turret hatch stuck a bandaged, burned bunny's paw and Morison shuddered. Stumbling he walked over, climbed up and looked inside...
Evening came painfully slow and as he turned the mainframe's switch, Morison was again greeted by the VI's cheerful voice:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
The Sirius's sunrise woke Morison and next to him he saw the hull of 'Defiance'. Its engine compartment was smoldering and the merchant slowly stood up, shaky, blistered hand leaning on the vehicle's hull. The distant sound of battle was growing closer and closer. He could see the towering silhouette of alien Mecha dancing on the horizon, firing at something with its beam cannons. The tank was absolutely fried, armor melted, and even the gun mantle was bent. Yet, the defiant machine managed to somehow return back and on its own power nonetheless. He took one painful look - three female bodies, cooked alive. Eye twitching, Morison jumped inside and began cleaning the vehicle. Much later, somebody's hands picked the collapsed Morison and carried him to the nearby triage station. This time he wasn't around to hear the VI's voice - grandma Klarissa did. When she turned the vehicle's mainframe switch on, its creator happily reported:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
Sirius sun rose again and shone upon the ravaged battlefield. In its southernmost end, a single vehicle was moving and shooting. Surrounded on all sides by towering mecha, its main gun molten and inoperable, only the coaxial railgun allowed the crew to return fire. The nearest mecha was hit and its legs exploded - the tank was moving on a borrowed time. That meant nothing for the colonists who crewed it. Close, behind that battle line, a battered battalion of Militia was able to retreat successfully thanks to the sacrifice of its crew. While they alone were fighting against one full mecha squad, their family and friends pulled back behind the tertiary defense line. Comprised of old, towed railguns which the colonists had dismounted from a transport barge and simple trenches, that line was to be their last stand. Just as the last militiaman leaped over the trench one of the enemy Mecha got lucky. A direct hit made the tank's turret fly off, shrapnel instantly killing everyone inside.
This time the sunrise didn't wake Morison up. He was comatose and slept like a corpse for two full days. In his tortured mind he saw people begging him to repair the tank again, crying with bloody tears, yet, the merchant couldn't move a single muscle. On the third morning, he was awoken by a kick in the gut. Gasping for air, with a Taz'aran boot on his throat and particle beam rifle pointing at his head, Morison nevertheless reached for his sidearm. It wasn't there. What he saw on the corpse-ridden ground was somebody's dagger and he grabbed it. He no longer cared if the invader would shoot him dead, for in his mind Morison had died many times over. The merchant slashed with his dagger. The surprised enemy screamed. His stinky blood splashed all over him. Morison then pulled himself up using the Taz'aran trooper's falling body. With his numb and bloodied fingers, he somehow managed to grab the enemy's rifle before throwing one look around. Morison was surrounded by at least a squad strong enemy force. All were lightly armored green-skinned taz'aran soldiers, and all were laughing at him - Morison closed his eyes. He pulled as much air as he could in his lungs, aimed the rifle at the nearest invader and screaming, pressed the trigger.
He was ready to fall like a Terran...
If you liked that short story, check my books which explore the same universe in more detail: 

Note:   This is an excellent read.  I have read two of the author's book thus far and can honestly say that he is a gifted writer and story teller.   I have not had the same engagement in Sci-fi adventure novels since the Frank Herbert books and I read them all.  I intend to also read all of the Dark Knight books in the future.   I think that he has just released a fourth book recently.

Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Good Men Avoid War - A Poem by M.N. Hopkins




Liars start all wars

The deceived fight in all wars

Good men avoid war

©  2019   M.N. Hopkins

Note:     This poem was inspired and written yesterday in the haiku style of poetry and published for the first time on my blog today, the 14th of May,  2019.    I will leave all interpretation of this poem to the reader.



Tuesday, May 7, 2019

The Human Instrument - A Poem by M.N. Hopkins




Today is here

Tomorrow will come

The now is unattainable to most

For, the now

Is a place of new creations

Clean

Fresh

Creations

Of the Human spirit

In tune with the Divine

When in tune

Or

Alignment

The human instrument

Will play the loveliest of tunes

Sounds will come into each instrument

And

Resonate with many of like kind

Yes

The human instrument

Has the ability 

And 

As well as the capacity

To play the most beautiful of music

When aligned with the Divine of Creation

So

Build your instruments

Healthy and strong

And

Tune them often

So that they resonate

With the most beautiful of sounds

The most beautiful of music

The sounds of creation

Given to Man

For the enjoyment

And

Reconstruction of all

Yes

Tune your instrument

Your human form

To receive the most beautiful of creations

Sounds that will

Build sound emotional, mental and physical structures

Be quiet and listen

Be quiet and open

To the beautiful sounds of creation

That will resonate in you

And all around you

Bringing the beautiful to yourself

To be shared with others of your kind

Now, be quiet

Now, listen

Now, create

Now, align with that which is the most beautiful and creative

Within yourself

And

Share it with others

So, that one day they will share this gift

With those yet to come

© 2019   M.N. Hopkins

Note:  In wrote this poem yesterday in an inspired state and published it for the first time on my blog today,  the 7th of May, 2019.

If you wish to read more of my poetry, please click on the link provided below:

https://www.poemhunter.com/michael-hopkins/

Saturday, May 4, 2019

Japanese Calligraphy Symbol For Spring



 " (shun・haru). It is translated as spring.

This character is written by Kanzi, Small seal script.

Etymology : It is Phono-semantic compound. 
semantic 艸 (“grass”) + phonetic 屯 (“sprout”) + semantic 日 (“sun”).

SOURCE:



Thursday, May 2, 2019

Help Arrives - A Poem by M.N. Hopkins



Help Arrives

Help comes in many forms

When you least expect it

It will come knocking upon the door

Will you open?

Or

Will that door remain closed?

To that help

That help that comes from the Divine

That help that aides humanity

To evolve and grow

Healthy physical structures

Healthy emotional structures

Healthy structures of the mind

Help will arrive

Yes

Help will come

When you least expect it

And

When you are most in need

Yes

Help has come

As

Help will come

As long as Man remains

Open to the Divine

©  2019   M.N. Hopkins

Note:  This poem was inspired and written on the 30th of April, 2019.   I published it today for the first time on my blog today, the 2nd of May, 2019.  I do hope that it is helpful in seeing the need for connection and even better to inspire help to arrive.

If you wish to read more of my poetry, please click on the link provided below:

https://www.poemhunter.com/michael-hopkins/