I live in the country side and, as the village peasant that I am, I am in the habit of turning my eyes to the sky to greet the early morning sun, that is, if it’s there. As others already have mentioned, these days the sky has taken on some strange hues at times. Perhaps you have noticed too. If not, make it a habit and see whether you notice someting amiss. And, of course, I’m not peddling anything (Can’t even make money here). You draw your own conclusions. I am just setting down my own observations about what I have seen, heard and read.
DOUBTING THOMAS
Thomas came for a morning chat
In the sun on the porch we sat.
We talked of old times and things new
Until our eyes to a strange sky drew.
What dudes are fouling up God’s sky?
Tracing trails as they fly up high?
Silently, stealthily, they streak
Portents of a future, growing bleak.
They’re merely contrails, my dear friend.
They’ll soon be gone. So be content.
Conspiracy of the internet
Where tall tales to you are fed.
Chem trails are tall tales you say?
Like WMDs of yesterday!!
Disproof sold as conspiracy.
A twisted lie now plain to see.
See those planes, flying overhead?
Those plumes, how they slowly spread?
Parallel streaks of eight or ten?
Then crisscrossed, like a grid, again.
That’s not your commercial overflight.
Something about that grid ain’t just right.
See how those trails together drift?
They hang together and do not lift.
The sunny sky turned to a misty haze.
The spread out trails had hid sun’s rays.
The foggy soup remained that day.
Thomas, will that sway, your preset way?
In minutes contrails vanish.
Chem trails, instead, longtime brandish.
Throughout the day they will prevail,
Causing slow death as we inhale.
In that soupy mist, some insist,
Particles exist, we can’t resist.
Aluminum, barium, bromide,
From which skin and lungs can not hide.
Are those chem trails spread, for our best?
Reductions of sunlight passed the test.
Who needs the healing sunshine’s warmth?
Not I, nor the world’s crops that mourned.
Welcome all, to our brave new world,
Where poisons float and bombs are hurled.
While fluff is shown on TV’s tube.
A deadly game is played, e’er so crude.
Where are the bright skies of my youth,
With billowy clouds? Tell the truth.
Ye are mum, ye Rulers of God’s earth!
Rule and trample, till earth yields dearth!
My friend Thomas was still confused.
He received his facts from world press news.
What he saw with his very own eyes
Was less convincing than printed lies.
VP – April 10, 2008 All right reserved
