A fishing poem, out of a Pirate Poem.

THE BOOK OF BURIED TREASURE
Opens with a Poem.

Of all the lives I ever say,
A Pirate's be for I.
Hap what hap may he's allus gay
An' drinks an' bungs his eye.
For his work he's never loth:
An' a-pleasurin' he'll go;
Tho' certain sure to be popt off,
Yo, ho, with the rum below!

In Bristowe I left Poll ashore,
Well stored wi' togs an' gold,
An' off I goes to sea for more,
A-piratin' so bold.
An' wounded in the arm I got,
An' then a pretty blow;
Comed home I find Poll's flowed away,
Yo, ho, with the rum below!

An' when my precious leg was lopt,
Just for a bit of fun,
I picks it up, on t'other hopt,
An' rammed it in a gun.
"What's that for?" cries out Salem Dick;
"What for, my jumpin' beau?
"Why, to give the lubbers one more kick!"
Yo, ho, with the rum below!

I 'llows this crazy hull o' mine
At sea has had its share:
Marooned three times an' wounded nine
An' blowed up in the air.
But ere to Execution Bay
The wind these bones do blow,
I'll drink an' fight what's left away,
Yo, ho, with the rum below!

—An Old English Ballad.

Re Make...  To go with my Love of Fishing.

Of all the lives I’ve come to know,
A fisherman’s for I.
With rod and reel, at dawn’s first glow,
I chase the sea’s wild cry.
For Calico Bass I cast my line,
For Halibut, my soul’s aglow;
In Marina Del Rey, my heart’s entwined,
Yo, ho, with the tide below!

From Avalon’s Harbor, sails unfurled,
We hunt the Striped Marlin’s gleam.
Catalina’s waters, a sapphire world,
Where White Seabass dance in my dream.
With Yellowtail’s fight, my spirit’s bold,
Yet I spare what the ocean’s owed;
Sunrise to sunset, her tale retold,
Yo, ho, with the tide below!

At Pyramid Cove, by San Clemente’s shore,
We anchor for Tuna, Yellowfin and Blue.
The fight’s a storm, their might I adore,
But fair play’s what an honest man’d do.
A nick on my hand from a Marlin’s spree,
I mend my gear and let it go;
The sea’s my home, her creatures free,
Yo, ho, with the tide below!

My weathered hull’s seen kelp and spray,
From Marina’s port to the deeps I roam.
For Bluefin’s chase or a Marlin’s fray,
Each wave’s a call to my sailor’s home.
Till my final cast by the sunset’s blaze,
I’ll honor the sea where my heart’s bestowed,
And fish with love through all my days,
Yo, ho, with the tide below!

5 - The Spark That Stays

 

The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok

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Week 5 – Chapter 5: The Drudge of Dawn

Jake Tanner woke to the 5 a.m. ration buzzer clawing through the dark, a jagged wail that yanked him from a dream of open roads—roads he’d never seen outside Grandpa’s stories. It was 2045, and New Boise was a gray trap—towers looming like tombstones, drones humming like vultures, every day a slog that ground you down to dust. He rolled off his cot, the concrete floor chilling his patched socks, and shuffled into the kitchen. Mom was already there, hunched over their 2015 coffee maker, a relic she’d kept alive with duct tape and a coil scavenged from a junked toaster. “Power’s at 15%,” she muttered, pouring a thin trickle of brew into a chipped mug. No new gear had come since the “Green Lock” of 2030—UN rules killed imports, shuttered factories, left folks patching relics like Cubans nursing ‘50s Fords with wire and grit. Ingenuity was their lifeline, but it was a heavy chain. 

 

He grabbed his jacket—elbow stitched with an old shirt—and trudged out, the journal from Grandpa tucked tight against his ribs, its leather a quiet heat after last night’s close call with the drone. The ration line stretched two blocks by 6, 50 gray coats blending into the fog, boots squishing mud—no new ones unless you were a city suit with credits to burn. A drone hovered, its speaker crackling: “No meat until 2050—carbon compliance.” Jake’s stomach growled as he took his soy paste brick and vitamin pill—breakfast, lunch, dinner, a gray lump that stuck in your throat like regret. Back home, Dad was under the 2020 pickup, its bald tires patched with glue and a prayer, engine wheezing on biofuel brewed from scavenged weeds. “Used to haul scrap to Boise proper,” Dad said, wiping grease on patched overalls. “Now? Quotas say stay—or cough up credits we ain’t got.”

School was a patched cage—Jake dodged a drone by 7, its red eye docking five credits for “excess walking” before he hit the door. The classroom stank of damp concrete, his desk wobbling on a leg he’d wired up last month when the bolts gave out. Lunch was more soy, leaking from a thermos Mom had kept running since the grid started flaking—half the time, power cut out, leaving them to huddle by a basement solar rig patched from junkyard panels. He slumped into his seat, the journal itching under his jacket, its words—fight for the spark—a pulse against the gray. Yesterday, he’d roped in Tomas Rivera and Lila Nguyen with Mia Cruz—the crew was set, ready to dig into Grandpa’s map tonight. But this grind? It was a boot on his neck, every patched step a fight to breathe.

Tomas caught him at recess, his stocky frame hunched under a patched hoodie, dirt on his hands from tending secret carrots under his porch. “Line took an hour,” he grumbled. “Drone fined me for ‘loitering’—ten credits gone. Dad’s patching the tractor again—tires flat, no spares since ‘35.” His voice was rough, eyes hard—he’d lost his dad’s shop to gas quotas, and the gray was personal now.

Lila slipped up next, quiet, her sketchbook hidden under a coat patched with an old curtain—art was “non-essential,” banned since the suits decided beauty was a luxury. “They caught me sketching yesterday,” she whispered, holding up a pencil stub, whittled to a nub. “Took my last good one—said it’s wasteful. I’ve got stubs left, patched with tape.” Her dark eyes flickered—she’d been dodging drones to draw, keeping color alive in secret.

Jake nodded, the crew’s weight settling in. “This is it—the cage Grandpa wrote about,” he said, voice low. “Soy, fines, patched lives—they’re graying us out. But we’ve got something—they don’t control what we know.”

Mia joined, her hacked goggles glinting under the fogged skylight. “Basement tonight,” she said, sharp and quick. “Rig’s hot—off-grid, no Monitors. We crack that journal—Sadducees, Reds, suits. Tomas, you got those books?”

Tomas patted his bag, patched with an old tarp. “Dad’s stash—hid ‘em when they banned paper in ‘40. Old history, banned stuff—might fit.”

Lila slipped a sketch into Jake’s hand—a flower over Grandpa’s scrawl. “I patched it in—colors they can’t ban.”

Jake grinned, the spark flaring. “School’s our ground—kids hate this gray. We dig tonight, spread it tomorrow—quiet, smart.” He flipped the journal open, reading soft: “Elites thrive on drudge—keeps us down. Fight it with what you know.” The words hit like a hammer—this grind wasn’t random; it was their cage, built to break ‘em. But patched or not, they were still running—pickup, pencils, lives—and now they had a weapon.

The recess buzzer screeched—drones swept closer, red eyes cutting the fog. “Scatter,” Mia hissed. Tomas bolted, Lila faded into the crowd, Mia ducked low. Jake shoved the journal deep, sprinting for the alley. A drone hummed behind, too close—had it tagged Lila’s sketch? Monitors were fast—yesterday’s haul-off was still fresh, a kid grayed out for talking. The journal was a bomb, and this crew was lighting the fuse.

He hit the shadows, fog swallowing him, the spark pounding in his chest. Tonight, they’d dig—Mia’s rig, Tomas’s books, Lila’s colors. The gray could grind, but it couldn’t snuff this. Not yet. 

 

To Be Continued

Next Week: The crew cracks into history—blood’s on the page, and the fight’s getting real. Don’t miss it.

Dig Deeper: Look up “Cuba vintage cars”—see how folks patch through the gray. 

 

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4 - The Spark That Stays

 

The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok

---

Week 4 – Chapter 4: The Crew Grows

Jake Tanner slipped into New Boise High with the journal burning a hole under his patched jacket, the morning fog still clinging to his boots like a bad dream. It was 2045, and the gray grind was in full swing—drones buzzing overhead, holoscreens blaring “Equity Day” slogans, and the ration line’s soy taste lingering in his throat. Last night in Mia’s basement had lit a spark—Grandpa’s words about freedom, the Ten Commandments, and elites like the Sadducees pulling strings. Now, he had to spread it, and Mia Cruz was already on it, her hacked goggles glinting as she caught him by the lockers. “Ready?” she whispered, voice sharp under the drone hum. 

Hmmmmmmm

“Yeah,” Jake said, scanning the hall. “Tomas and Lila—we need ‘em.” Mia nodded, her wiry frame tense—she’d cracked enough secrets to know numbers mattered. The school was a cage—patched desks, flickering lights, kids shuffling like drones themselves—but it was their ground now. Jake’s gut churned; that drone from two nights back still haunted him, its red eye too close. Monitors were sniffing, and time was tight.

They nabbed Tomas Rivera in the back stairwell, away from the holoscreen glare. He was 15, stocky, with dirt-streaked hands from tending carrots he grew under his porch—secret patches the UN quotas hadn’t sniffed out yet. “Elites again?” Tomas groaned, brushing soil off his patched jeans, the knees worn thin from crawling under floorboards. “My dad’s auto shop died—gas quotas choked it last year. Now I’m patching tires with glue and prayers.” His voice was rough, but his eyes were hard—fed up didn’t cover it.

“Same game, different suits,” Jake said, sliding the journal across the chipped stair. “Grandpa says it’s old as dirt—elites crushing us to stay big. We’re next unless we fight smart.”

Tomas squinted at the scrawl—“Freedom’s the West’s soul—Ten Commandments, fair laws”—then looked up. “Fair laws? Like not fining me for growing food? I’m listening.”

Lila Nguyen slipped in next, 14, quiet as a shadow, her sketchbook tucked under a patched coat—art was “non-essential,” banned since 2043’s “Resource Edict.” She traced a flower on her pad with a pencil stub, her voice soft but steady. “I’d kill for real colors—not this gray muck. They took my paints—said it’s wasteful.” Her dark eyes flickered; she’d been dodging drones to sketch in secret, a rebel with a pencil.

Mia leaned against the wall, goggles glinting. “That’s the cage—Grandpa’s calling it out. Sadducees started it—power over love, freedom, beauty. Now it’s UN, WEF, suits graying us out. History’s our weapon—let’s learn it, use it.”

Jake flipped the journal to the Sadducees bit, reading low: “Sadducees said, ‘One man dies, we stay kings.’ Rigged a mob, killed a guy—Jesus—to keep their throne. Temple’s dust by 70 AD.” He looked up. “They hated freedom—sounds like quotas killing your shop, Tomas, or banning your art, Lila. Same pattern—elites scared of the spark.”

Tomas cracked his knuckles, a slow grin breaking. “So they kill to stay big? I’m in—knowledge beats their drones any day. What’s the play?”

Lila’s pencil paused, her flower half-drawn. “They can’t ban what we know—colors in here,” she tapped her head, “stay alive. I’m with you.”

Jake felt it—a crew forming, a spark catching. “School’s our start,” he said. “Kids hate this gray—soy, fines, patched lives. We dig into Grandpa’s map—Sadducees, Reds, suits—figure who’s pulling strings now. Spread it quiet—Monitors are itchy.”

Mia’s grin was a blade. “My rig’s ready—off-grid, no traces. We crack it tonight—more history, more dirt. Then we hit ‘em where they don’t see—right here.” She tapped the stair, concrete cold under her finger.

Tomas nodded, brushing dirt off his hands. “I’ve got a stash—old books Dad hid when they banned ‘em. Might help.”

Lila slipped her sketch into the journal, a flower blooming over Grandpa’s words. “I’ll draw it—show ‘em what’s lost.”

Jake’s chest buzzed—four of ‘em now, a flicker against the gray. He’d patched the pickup with Dad last night, wire and spit keeping it alive, and this felt the same—rigging something real from scraps. But the hall buzzed—a drone patrol swept closer, its hum cutting through the fog outside. “Scatter,” he hissed, shoving the journal back under his jacket. “Tonight—Mia’s.”

They split—Tomas down the stairs, Lila to class, Mia blending into the crowd. Jake ducked out, the drone’s red eye glinting through a window. Had it tagged him? Monitors were fast—yesterday’s ration check flagged a kid for “excess talking,” hauled him off. The journal was a bomb—if they caught it, he’d be grayed out before the fight even started.

He hit the alley, fog swallowing him, the spark flaring hotter. Grandpa’s map was growing—Sadducees were just the beginning, and this crew was his shot. But that drone hum stuck in his ears, a shadow on the spark. How long ‘til it saw too much? 

 

To Be Continued

 

Next Week: The crew digs into the journal—history’s got blood, and the fight’s heating up. Don’t miss it.

Dig Deeper: Search “UN quotas impact” or “Cuba car repairs”—see how folks patch through the gray.

3 - The Spark That Stays

 The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok

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Week 3 – Chapter 3: The First Spark

Jake Tanner slipped out of New Boise High as the last drone patrol buzzed off, the journal tucked tight under his patched jacket like a secret grenade. The fog hung thick, muffling the hum of the gray towers, but his heart thumped loud enough to wake the dead. It was 2045, and after another day of soy slop and “Equity Day” slogans, he couldn’t shake Grandpa’s words—fight for the spark. What spark? He’d dodged a close call with that drone last night, and now Mia Cruz was waiting, her off-grid rig ready to crack open the mystery. He darted through back alleys, boots squishing mud, the weight of the gray grind pressing down—ration lines, patched pickups, a life where even breathing felt like it cost credits.

Mia’s basement was a glow of rebellion—scavenged screens flickering, wires snaking like vines across the concrete floor. She’d patched it all herself: an old TV gutted for parts, a 2020 generator wheezing on siphoned gas, a tangle of circuits that kept the Net Monitors blind.  “Took you long enough,” she said, her wiry frame hunched over a keyboard, hacked goggles glinting in the dim light. At 14, she was a wizard with anything that sparked—drones, screens, secrets.  Jake dropped into a chair scavenged from some junked office, the journal thumping onto the table between them. “Had to dodge a tail,” he said, wiping sweat off his brow. “They’re itchy today.”

Mia grinned, sharp and alive, and flipped the journal open.  “Let’s see what Grandpa’s got. Sadducees, suits—elites, huh?  Spill it.” Jake leaned in, his voice low as he read aloud, the words cutting through the basement’s hum: “Freedom’s the West’s soul—Ten Commandments, fair laws you tweak local.  Love your neighbor, don’t steal—simple, strong. Elites hate it—too free.”

Mia’s fingers paused on her keys, her goggles slipping down her nose. “Ten Commandments?  Like, Bible stuff?”

Jake nodded, tracing the scrawl. “Grandpa says it’s the root—God’s rules, fair, not forced.  Back when the West was towns and guts, not towers and quotas, they built on it. Laws fit the place—kept love and beauty alive, not this gray cage.”  He thought of Dad’s pickup, patched to death, and Mom’s coffee maker limping along—ingenuity fighting a system that wanted ‘em down.  The Ten Commandments sounded old, sure, but simple: don’t kill, don’t steal, love your neighbor. Nothing about soy bricks or drone fines in there.

Mia smirked, leaning back. “Not bad—beats quotas telling me no burger ‘cause cows fart too much. What’s the catch?”

Jake flipped the page, and Grandpa’s tone shifted—darker, sharper: “Sadducees started it—power over love. Watch the pattern.” He looked up, the basement’s glow flickering in his eyes. “That’s the hook—Mia, these Sadducees, they were big shots way back, right? Roman days. Grandpa’s saying it’s the same game now—elites crushing us to stay on top.”

Mia’s grin faded, her fingers drumming the table. “Yeah, Sadducees—ran the Temple, played nice with Rome to keep their gold. Hated anything that rocked their boat. You’re saying the UN, WEF, these suits—they’re pulling the same stunt?”

“Looks like it,” Jake said, tapping the journal. “That Harris bit—2024 win, NWO kicking off—it’s nuts, but it fits. Drones, quotas, gray everywhere—feels like a cage snapping shut, just like he wrote.” He didn’t know if Harris really won back then—it was fiction, a story Grandpa spun—but the towers outside, the soy lines, the patched-up life? That was real enough to choke on.

Mia’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. “Okay, so freedom’s this spark—Ten Commandments, fair laws, love, all that. Elites hate it ‘cause it’s free—can’t control it. What’s next?”

Jake read on, voice steady: “They’ve been at it forever—Sadducees were just the start. Power over people, always. Dig into it, Jake—know the pattern, fight it.” He shut the journal, the thud echoing in the basement. “He’s telling us to learn—figure out who’s pulling this now.”

Mia leaned forward, her goggles glinting again. “We’ve got the rig—off-grid, no Monitors sniffing. Let’s crack this wide—Sadducees, Reds, suits, whatever. But we need more heads—school’s crawling with kids who hate this gray as much as we do.”

Jake’s mind flashed—Tomas Rivera, the stocky kid who grew carrots under his porch, dodging quotas with a patched-up grin; Lila Nguyen, quiet, sketching colors the drones couldn’t gray out. “Tomas and Lila,” he said. “They’re sharp—and fed up. Tomas lost his dad’s shop to gas rules; Lila’s art’s banned as ‘non-essential.’ They’d get this.”

Mia nodded, her fingers flying over the keys, pulling up a blank X thread on her hacked screen. “Good—crew’s step one. We dig tomorrow—school’s our ground. History’s our weapon, Jake—Grandpa’s handing us a map, and I’m not letting it sit.”

The generator coughed, a spark flaring in its guts, and Jake felt it—a flicker in his chest, matching the journal’s dare. The gray grind outside—soy, drones, patched relics—was a cage, sure, but Mia’s rig, Grandpa’s words, this basement? It was a crack in the concrete, a spark the suits couldn’t snuff.  Tomorrow, they’d spread it. But tonight, that drone from last night still haunted him—red eye hunting, closing in. Had it seen him? Was it waiting?

He shoved the journal back under his jacket, the leather cool against his ribs.  “Let’s move fast,” he said. “They’re watching.”

Mia’s grin was a blade in the dark.  “Let ‘em watch—they won’t see this coming.”

 

To Be Continued…

 

Next Week: Jake and Mia pull in Tomas and Lila—the crew’s born, and the fight’s just starting. Don’t miss it.

 

Dig Deeper: Peek at “Ten Commandments” in Exodus 20—old stuff, but it’s got bite.

The Unites States of America was made for a moral people. The Ten matter.
https://www.prageru.com/video/the-ten-commandments-what-you-should-know

Outfront on Communist World news

2 - The Spark That Stays

 The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok

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Week 2 – Chapter 2: The Gray Grind

Jake Tanner woke to the 5 a.m. ration buzzer slicing through the dark, a sound like a rusty saw on his nerves.  He rolled off the lumpy cot in his family’s cramped New Boise flat, the concrete floor cold under his patched socks. It was 2045, and this was life—gray, managed, a grind that chewed you up and spat you out tasting like soy paste.  He stumbled into the kitchen, where Mom hunched over a 2015 coffee maker she’d jury-rigged with duct tape and a scavenged heating coil from some trashed drone.  “Power’s at 20%,” she sighed, pouring a watery brew into a chipped mug.  No new appliances had hit the shelves since the “Green Lock” of 2030—imports banned, factories shuttered under the UN’s “sustainability” rules. Like those old Cubans keeping ‘50s Chevys wheezing on spit and wire, folks in New Boise patched relics to limp along.  Ingenuity was all they had left, but it was a slog that weighed a ton.

He grabbed his jacket—the one with the elbow stitched up from an old shirt—and trudged two blocks to the ration line, 50 gray coats blending into the fog.  The line snaked slow, boots squishing mud; new ones were a city-kid perk, not for outskirts grunts like him.  A drone hovered overhead, its speaker crackling: “No meat until 2050—for the planet’s sake.” Jake’s stomach growled as he collected his soy paste brick and a chalky vitamin pill—breakfast, lunch, dinner, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow.  Back home, Dad was already under the hood of their 2020 pickup, its bald tires patched with glue and prayers, the engine coughing on homemade biofuel siphoned from a junked lawnmower.  “Used to drive clear to Idaho Falls,” Dad muttered, wiping grease on his patched overalls.  “Now? Carbon quotas say stay put—or pay credits we don’t got.”

School was no escape. Jake slouched into New Boise High by 7, dodging a drone that buzzed him for “excess walking”—five credits docked from his family’s ration account before he even hit the door.  The classroom smelled like damp concrete, his desk wobbling on a leg he’d fixed with wire from a busted holoscreen. Those screens blared “Equity Day” propaganda—UN slogans about fairness—but the soy slop at lunch still leaked from his patched thermos, a relic Mom had kept running since the power grid started flickering.  He slumped into his seat, the journal from Grandpa itching under his jacket, its leather warm against his ribs from last night’s close call with the drone.  He couldn’t shake it—those words about elites, cages, and a spark he didn’t understand yet.

Mia Cruz slid in next to him, her wiry frame barely filling the chair, hacked goggles perched on her nose like a badge.  She was 14, sharp as a tack, with a knack for cracking systems the Net Monitors couldn’t touch.  “You look like you swallowed a glitch,” she said, twirling a spork she’d bent into a tiny wrench—her latest basement fix. Jake slipped her the journal under the table, keeping it low as Ms. Kerr droned about “global unity” up front.  “Grandpa’s,” he whispered, voice tight. “Says we’re losing something—freedom, maybe. Ever hear of Sadducees?”

Mia’s eyes lit up—she loved a puzzle. “Old Jewish bigwigs,” she said, voice low. “Ran the Temple back in Roman days, kissed boots to keep power. What’s the hook?”

“Elites,” Jake said, glancing at the holoscreen flashing “Global Unity—2030 and Beyond.” “Then and now—crushing us, he says. Like this.”  He tapped the journal, heart thumping. Mia flipped it open, her fingers quick, and froze at the next bit.  Grandpa’s scrawl jumped: “Kamala Harris won 2024—kicked off the New World Order. Suits took over—UN, WEF, the works.  Cage snapped shut.”

Mia’s goggles slipped down her nose. “Harris? That’s wild—fiction, right?” She grinned, but her eyes narrowed, like she wasn’t so sure. Jake shrugged—it sounded like a story, sure, but it hit too close.  The drones, the quotas, the gray—it felt real enough to choke on.  “My rig’s off-grid,” Mia said, snapping the journal shut. “Basement, tonight. Monitors can’t sniff us there—we’ll crack this open.”

Jake nodded, a jolt running through him.  Maybe he wasn’t alone in this mess. The bell buzzed—another drone patrol circled outside, red eyes glinting through the fogged windows.  Ms. Kerr barked, “Line up—ration check!” Jake stuffed the journal deeper, his mind racing. Soy lines, patched trucks, drones on his tail—Grandpa’s “cage” was here, now.  But Mia’s grin, sharp and alive, was a crack in it.  Tonight, they’d dig. What had Harris’s win—if it even happened—unleashed? And who were these suits pulling strings?

The drone’s hum grew louder, hovering just past the school gate. Jake’s gut twisted—close calls were piling up.  But that spark Grandpa wrote about? It was flickering, and he wasn’t letting it die.

 To be continued...

Next Week: Jake and Mia crack into the journal—history’s got secrets, and they’re about to spill. Don’t miss it.

Dig Deeper: Check out “Sadducees” online or peek at “Kamala Harris 2024” chatter on X—speculation’s free. Only takes a moment, Do you know about Sadducees vs. Pharisees in the Bible?  Mark 15:11 states, "But the chief priests stirred up the crowd to have him release Barabbas for them instead."