Category: Poem

God Gave Me the Lyrics to this Song, I Dictated it While Listening

 

Yea, we in Christ we live for, poor:—

The silver thread on Darkened doom—

With closing eyes and resting head

I hold and see His coming soon.

 

Upon my pillow

Safely’n hand

A thousand pictures fill my head.

I cannot sleep; my mind’s aflight,

And yet I receive Made-of-Flesh.

 

There are noises,

Sweet or not,—

Afright it shall

Flee tonight

When Christ our anchor.—

On to sleep,

And counts of joy deep,

If Sacrosanct our song.

 

What dreams they

Chart, North dark and deep

All flying Prince and soaring live;

As Christ the Lamb died to sin

As Christ the Lamb died to sin

As Christ the Lamb died (to) to sin.

 

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep Sheep.

Sleep.

Sleep Sweet.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

A Hypocrite and a Righteous Man

There was a hypocrite

Who, seeing that he had done much wrong

Said, “The LORD shall not exact from me

“This evil deed. I have murdered,

“Slandered my brother,

“I have stolen from him,

“And I have committed adultery

“Under every oak.

“LORD, I see I am justified by Your blessing

“Knowing I have sinned, You will not exact it from me.

“For, so I have committed offences,

“My grain offering shall be sufficient for the payment;—

“The fruit of my drink offerings and oblations poured into the ground.

“Yes, LORD You shall not visit me for this.

“Rather, when the bugle gets called

“I will enter into my heavenly abode.”

 

There was a righteous man

Seeing he had done much wrong

Who said, “LORD, I had defiled myself

“In the way. I have lain with two virgins

“Who were not my wife

“And I have defiled the covenant

“With the woman I was betrothed to.

“I had also done violence,

“And had lied for gain.

“I had spoken ill against You

“In my heart, and I had cursed my neighbor

“And I had falsely accused the innocent.

“LORD, I know certainly Your wrath

“Shall abide on me, until the day

“That these abominations are loosed from me,

“For how else, LORD, am I to be made clean?”

To Ray Bradbury

Dear,

Ray

 

I don’t want to get rid of movies.

I know you’d be concerned about that.

I like movies…

Frankenstein,

Hunchback of Notre Dame,

John Wayne movies

And the myriads of movies I watch on Turner Classic Movies.

 

I don’t want Edgar Allen Poe to stop being read.

Though, we’d have a disagreement about him

I don’t consider him great literature.

But, there is a subtle respect in me

Of what can be accomplished with words.

As you see, his process is in my list

Of great writing advice.

So are you.

 

I don’t want there to be no rules to writing.

I like punctuation—a little too much.

I like capitalization—not really enough.

 

I don’t like Aldous Huxely, John Steinbeck

Or Voltaire. Yet, Aldous Huxely portrays

What I dread, John Steinbeck also,

And Voltaire solidified my country.

So, I don’t want everyone conforming to my tastes

As my tastes can be, and often are,

Wrong.

 

I’ve attempted publishing 75 times, Ray.

You at least got into Playboy magazine;—

And the myriads of other journals.

I hope you read my writing some day

In heaven— I believe you’re going to heaven

Because you seem adamant about Christ.

A gentile maybe, but one I think has a lot of wisdom.

My writing isn’t being accepted.

I get pretty letters half the time

Saying how they like it…

Just they “Can’t use it.”

What does this mean?

 

If you don’t mind my saying

It sounds an awful lot like Fahrenheit 451.

Excuse me for it being a fundamental work

In shaping my ideas—

You got me to read.

But, when I look at modern rules for writing

I see Orwell’s Newspeak.

I see Beatty arguing with Montag

Wanting to throw Melville into the flames.

I hope you don’t mind my saying so…

Sometimes you seem antagonistic toward me.

But, seventy five times attempted to get published

And I think my work seems unprotected

And out there, what should be published and isn’t.

So, I did what was logical, and went on Amazon.com.

 

I know you hate the internet, Ray.

But, there’s a lot on here to enjoy and be satisfied with.

It, like a saw,

Can be used to build a woodshed.

Or, as gruesome as it might sound,

It can be used for other, unwholesome reasons.

If traditional magazines do not take me,

Then I must do what I have to do.

And when I send out my business cards

Some force doesn’t let them ever produce a single dollar for me.

Rather, I don’t know what’s happening.

Is it my fault?

I’d think you’d be scared as hell as I am

If something you knew was a good story

Was rejected by thirteen publishers.

Furthermore, great works of poetry were rejected by twenty magazines.

Furthermore, great works of novels were rejected by twelve agents.

Furthermore, that the Art Institute got a letter from me

And didn’t reply back.

Furthermore, that I had sent to about twenty more magazines,

Had submitted queries—the fact is I can’t market worth a damn,

Nor sell food to a starving man… I’d probably end up giving him food.

Understand that’s my problem… I believe, Naively, that good writing speaks for itself.

But, it doesn’t in my generation, now does it?

 

Frankly, I see you getting angry with me

Saying I hadn’t tried hard enough.

Oh, Ray, I’ve written 22 books,

A 23rd, and a 24th are on their way…

Who knows what else.

If I were a marketer, I suppose

On book one it’d be sold,

But book 2 would never have been written.

 

Yet… I think like you,

I can be fruitful with success.

And I wonder why I’m not successful.

To the best of my knowledge I have 51 subscribers

On this blog—another attempt at gaining an audience—

I have made 200 dollars, at most,

On my writing, most of it sold to my family

Who do not give a damn about it.

 

So, I ask you, not that you are a god

Because you’re not.

You are in the grave,

Sleeping…

I ask you, what advice is there to give me

When the Reichstag is being committed by our publishing industry?

Please explain it to me. I want to know.

 

Why is Russia allowed to read my writing

And Pakistan

But American publishers don’t publish it?

That’s another unfriendly question.

It’s one I want answered.

I know it’s not my government.

It’s something else.

 

 

Please, if you like this, buy a copy of my book.

 

 

 

 

Majority Rule?

There once was a city,

With several sage men.

 

The city would elect

Them to office

Based on their wisdom and

Their craft.

 

One day,

However,

The people wanted to

Govern themselves,

So they cast out those sage men,

And began governing by majorities.

 

Soon, a majority called

The Whitemen

Found that there was a minority called

The Blackmen,

And the Whitemen

Didn’t like them.

 

So, having the majority,

They elected that all

The Blackmen

Be enslaved,

Or otherwise killed.

 

The Blackmen

Tried to fight back,

But there was general silence

About their extermination

Because

The Whitemen

Had the majority, and

Other men

Didn’t want to be

Who was exterminated next.

 

With regard,

 

Majority rule doesn’t make something true.

Salt is Good…; A Nursery Rhyme

Salt is good…

So is cream,

Slow cook a recipe instead.

 

Use some butter,

Margarine another,

Vegetable spreads are good for breads.

 

Olive Oil makes good dressings…

And Lemon juice makes a tang…

Try new things, if not bad

But remember!

Don’t let it go to your head!

 

For I tinker, and I experiment

But it’s only to find a fine art…

Art is not what’s new and bold

But what’s been the best from the start.

 

There are things we have eaten

Since we were little girls and lads

Which our grandparents and theirs have eaten

So put in its place a fad.

 

Yes, a candy of a different sort

Will taste good at a One Night Stand.

But every night to eat that thing

A chocolate bar looks pretty grand.

 

For food is good,

And so is to make

A new thing never been done…

But consider if it were really good

It would already be tried by someone!

 

Life is not what’s new and creative

But finding the truth for you.

For what is truth can be creative

But it’s found because it’s called truth!

 

We can paint a dot and polka-dot

Those look good on a fashionable dress…

But on a canvas, heavens bless

I could have done that with a press.

 

No… not to say a white painted board

Cannot be worth a lot.

It’s just… someone who’s worked as hard as us

To earn from our living, we ought.

Taco

I say,

“Put the cheese on first,”

To a white employee.

Then she’s too hesitant to know how to make a Taco;

So her manager proceeds to say,

“Only the good ones know that.”

Affirming that the cheese goes on first.

Mine fell apart at Taco Bell

For precisely that reason,

And at the Moes, they threw lettuce on it first.

 

At the restaurant in Baltimore they didn’t have cumin

Or really any Taco seasoning.

As the great chef Aarón Sánchez would say,

“This is not a Taco.”

Trust me, I understand that sentiment completely.

 

I suppose if anything were truly wrong with us…

It’s that we don’t do our jobs right

Nor understand simple traditions.

Nobody tells the little black boy behind the counter

That the cheese goes on first.

The little white boy grins and says with contempt,

“You hadn’t told me you wanted cheese on it first.”

The restaurant is a mess, with pieces of lettuce and napkins everywhere.

Understand the actual reality would be considered racist,

Though I don’t intend it to be so

I cannot tell the truth in this instance

Of who really threw the lettuce on first.

 

It’s a principle as old as time.

Something needs done.

Learn the process of doing it right;

And let the truth be told

So people can have more fulfilling lives

Black or white.

Because on a Taco, the cheese goes on first

And only the good ones know that.

 

Cheekily, I can imagine that boy reading this

And saying, “Aha, I did put the cheese on first!”

But then he put the lettuce on,

Which is the most backward taco of them all.

It goes cheese, meat, and then everything else

So not to confuse, because the Cheese,

As the manager puts it,

“Makes a seal.”

I think like slow cooking a roast beef

It just makes the tastiest results.

And I think most people would agree

After trying it.

Mother Mary

In times of trouble

Said a man,

Mother Mary whispered, “Let it be.”

 

I was told nobody worships her.

I believe it.

But still, the priest says the alter is not clean

As if they have to order a new one.

It’s not the alter that is sanctified,

Nor the gift on the alter.

Rather, the heart of the repentant.

 

With that, it is Mary worship

To say the Alter is unclean

And to not cast out the laymen’s sin.

Throw it into the Sea, Judah;—

You know the whole world suffers from it.

 

We need cleansed;—

Men walk about with their hearts uncircumcised.

What does that mean?

We walk around with our hearts not purified

With that writhing animal within us.

I am not a Gnostic,

Because I say clearly it needs to come out.

How, though? If the priests forget their mysticism?

A thousand homilies cannot take that out;—

It must be done with power, and the knife

Of grace.

 

Protestants believe it not so;—

Catholics complain about the alter.

I have even heard it, but the knife needs

To be wielded, the surgeon needs to cut.

 

And should the cancer come up again,

I say, “We walk in the world, every one of us.”

Deliver us! Don’t leave us here, for God’s Sake

And His elect! It should be a treatment,

Like a drip bag, with a scalpel to take out the tumor.

Don’t let us suffer, with that ingrate inside of us

The one you hide, Judah.

Take it out with the knife,

And don’t say, “The alter.”

The alter has no power.

Only Christ has the power to save…

If the man’s heart were unclean

But truly repentant…

I’d say even the most unclean of alters

Would be sufficient.

The dirtiest table.

Throw the alcohol on it

And disinfect it,

Because the old testament laws are no longer aportioned.

 

Therefore, o Judah, because you understand it is so

Take the scalpel and cut from Elijah, from Judah, from Eleazar

That wife of his, the one who made them suffer all night

That strange wife,

And remove it from him with the scalpel God has given you

The Sword of The Spirit of the Elect.

Or… is it that you have lost faith in Christ?

Has Sardis made you soil your garments, as well?

To see unwieldy surgeons?

 

So it is, that Jesus is my LORD.

That is sufficient, now perform the cleansing ritual.

We Need Forgiveness

What we need

Is a little bit of forgiveness.

We need to not get so hot

Over everything done to us.

 

The wicked, with their Vengeance

Seek out the letter of the law

To execute blind justice.

Little do they know their own sins.

 

We as a civilization will,

Instead of cover up,

Expose one another,

Try to throw one another to the dogs.

 

They lurk, to uncover all men’s skirts.

Up the skirt, the kiln, they look

To see the beauty, the filth

The crust of dirty deeds.

 

All men want their justice…

They want to feel entitled to

Their enemies’ reward.

So when justice is executed

 

They cannot see it.

 

 

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