Category: Poem

The Empress Wears No Clothes; My Retelling

The Empress Shi Wu was extraordinarily beautiful.

Her bosom was supple,

Her face like a well sculpted diamond,

Her stomach like a sack of wheat

With four precious stones,

Her legs were thighs of strength

And her feet were like sparrows.

Her hair was that of a frame

Which framed beauty incarnate.

 

At the beginning of her reign

She saw the people were poor.

So, she began by making the people richer

By adding tin to their silver coin.

This, by reason,

Made the coin much more plenteous.

 

The people became poor.

 

Then, she began to build the merchant guilds.

These guilds she would cause to make merchandise for the poor.

The merchants built and made much merchandise,

So Shi Wu put more coin into the land to buy merchandise.

But, the merchants ended up with all the coin,

And would melt them to make pure silver,

Buying the poor’s merchandise with the dross.

 

Shi Wu then began to become rich by the merchants

Who supplied her treasury with great merchandise,

Even from greater Persia all the way from the other china.

Shi Wu became exceedingly rich.

 

The people became poor.

 

The people had traditions,

The people had great science.

Their science said the world was round

That God created the world through nature

And that men were made up of smaller parts.

Shi Wu then saw this.

She said, “Tell the people there is no God

“And that their traditions are worthless.

“That their God says the earth is flat

“And that God did not use nature to make the earth.

“This way, they must buy more.

“Make enriching me their religion.”

So, she did.

 

The people had tin

And not silver,

And a shekel of tin was worth a grain of wheat.

 

The people became poor.

 

But Shi Wu, they heard,

Said that their traditions were stupid.

So, the people began to believe that the earth was flat

Rather than believe Shi Wu.

Obviously, if the earth were flat,

It would explain the lie of Shi Wu.

The people also believed that people

Were not made of smaller parts…

Rather, the people were just one whole

Flesh of writhing sinew.

 

Their traditions, they thought,

Were correct, so when Shi Wu said

The traditions of the ancestors were that men were sinew

And that the world were flat,

The people began to believe their traditions

Instead of Shi Wu.

This angered Shi Wu,

So she began to tax the people.

For, their traditions held that the earth was flat

And now the people believed the Earth was flat

Because of their traditions

Which Shi Wu said were not good.

 

Thus, Shi Wu in one last act of defiance

Disrobed, and called in every male within the borders of her country

To come and view her.

Lusty she was,

She did obscene things before their very eyes

Just to humiliate the traditions of their ancestors.

She said, “See! Is not my beauty sufficient?

“You all can have Shi Wu who wants her!”

But, there began a rumor saying,

“The Emperor wears no clothes.”

This angered Shi Wu,

So she said, “Anyone who says, ‘The Emperor wears no clothes,’

“This man, woman or child shall be put to death.”

But, the people, all having seen her shame

Did not believe her, though many were put to death.

For the traditions of the ancestors were stronger

Than the tradition of Shi Wu.

O’ Pilidod Grass, Spread ‘pon the Breadth of the Mountain Valleys

O’ pilidod grass, spread ‘pon the breadth of the mountain valleys

Where my lover waits for me in robes of silken thread,

Garbed, spread across her shoulder of creme, to ivory neck.

There she dances ‘pon the fields where the foals give their turns

And the calves give hearty suck upon their mother’s teats.

The shepherds gaze upon the herds, where my lover in

Bonny feeds the lilies with nectar of nearby streams.

 

The singing of the mountain songs, in Hoar English fill

The caverns with their echoes of love songs for we two

Who by the roads and the valleys search all day and night.

Suitors come and go, as she hopes on me, and I her.

The most beautiful among the maidens comes nigh me

Yet my dove, darling of my valleys and hopes do sing

I reject promises of women who do love me not.

The mountains sing their songs to bring us nigh one another,

As the gulls in piridod coasts sing their hymns to us

Where the shepherds nigh the fields do tend their woolen sheep.

Establish her waiting, oh LORD, LORD of Sabbaoth.

 

 

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The Beetles’ Influence in My Poetry

 

I’d be lying if I said this song didn’t inspire some of my best poetry. Lol. What comes to mind is the “Mind in a Vat” philosophy, and then it moved on from there to Leviathan—a creature I kind of half made up for a storybook I wrote—which then became of course Death, and then the Yellow Submarine became Leviathan; so the song kind of inspired me to make the Yellow Submarine the belly of She’ol or the Grave. Very archetypal song with a lot of subconscious ruminations that kind of just happen for some reason. I find it one of the Beetle’s best.

That and Hey Jude—which may or may not be what influenced me to take on the persona of Judas Son of James in my writing. If so, that one would be unintentional. But, Elora is Brittos’ wife, which he has to win from Medea. Of course, Brittos is being offered the World by Medea, but he wants to win his wife and get his modest life instead. And of course, the song is about Jude—in the Beetle’s Poem—wanting to start a movement to gain the world, instead of settling for his wife. As in to say, that’s an archetypal struggle of a Christian to either A: Take the modest blessing, or B: Try and start a movement to “Change the World.” Which my poetry is very conscious about not wanting to “Change the World”, but rather wanting to “Change the Heart.” And the song is about finding love so the heart doesn’t get bad. Which, in the Ode of Brittos and Medea, the Protagonist has to accept the fact that he’s saved by Grace, otherwise he’ll succumb to Medea and her offering of the world.

 

If you like the poetry, please click on the link and buy a book.

What is Truly Wrong With Our Generation

So, some who read me,

You know I wrote a poem on being plagiarized.

I’m probably not being plagiarized, unless you see these works

In famous books… perhaps then I’m being plagiarized.

 

But… in all of that,

People of our generation think…

Truthfully… in their hearts they actually think this….

That I’m encouraging the reader to plagiarize my book.

 

Just some notion in me is to think that that’s what some readers

Would think I really mean.

And rightly, that’s not what I mean.

I mean the exact opposite.

 

As if being called a Sow is not bad enough

I say that person is going to hell,

And then I call them idiot,

And then, to top it all off… I say they piss on their gold.

 

To have the humility of speech

To honestly mourn in my complaint—

True or false I don’t know—

That I felt cheated… I don’t think the moral was to cheat me out of more.

 

Piss is in the Bible, let me use the word here.

I don’t cuss… it’s evil, but in a poem…

Let it be so forgiven if that’s what the LORD gave me.

How can anyone misinterpret that poem?

 

Yet… numerous people do.

Why? Why when being called a sow wallowing in pig crap

Which they urinated on, mixed with gold

Do they think it’s okay to steal?

 

Frankly, it’s never okay to steal.

That is wrong… not if you’re a prince

Not if you’re a poor man looking at a merchant man with the world in his cupboard

Not even if you’re a beggar looking to get a scrap of food.

 

We have pity on a thief who steals because he is hungry.

But we do not pity a man who, after seeing a cauldron of gold

Goes to it and takes it away, knowing that was the place it was safely buried.

Which, if the first part of the poem didn’t make that clear.—

 

What reason does anyone have to steal from me?

That I am well fed? That I am rich?

Frankly… those are not good reasons because I can very easily

Not be well fed. And I am certainly not rich… not in my country.

 

In your country, you pay what is the equivalent of a hey penny

For some food. And you do, don’t even lie about it.

In my country, we don’t even have hey pennies

But are trying to outlaw pennies altogether and replace them with nickles.

 

So, equivalently, I’m about as wealthy as any of you

Reading this poem… which if you want to call me rich

Then you have the same access to internet and the same benefits as me.

I might even have a little less.

 

And if you want me to be a beggar

Then by all means steal from me.

Like a hypocrite, or a sociopath,

I know what demographic I speak to, and I don’t care if I offend your laws.

 

Because I’m here to enrich the borders of Israel

And to bring it so that a man, yes all of you, can eat from your labor.

If it is stolen, like the Seagull who snatched up the french fry

From the pigeon, maybe it was because the fry was too big.

 

Yet… perhaps, also, we’re not wild animals

And we have built civilization and laws and customs

So that we can live with one another

And be at rest that what is ours, others won’t have the right to take away.

 

And frankly, that is why I’m not a Hindu.

I love my readers from India—

And I know you haven’t plagiarized me—

But I do understand your religion, and have chosen the one that didn’t make you slaves.

 

If you like the poetry, please click on the link and purchase a book.

The Rarity of Our Society

I

The rarity of our society
That we can live off of what we’ve made
Is a thing fleeting the grasp of our rich men
That it can be lost.

The hoary head, wisely
Knows he made his thirty cents
When he was a young man.
And by work he became rich.

There have been other societies
Other Chinas, as the Chinese would call Rome
In its peak, where men lived and ate
And were not slaves.

Reading a “Communist Newspaper”
Casually, I thought he meant it was really communist.
Happily, I entertained he was misguided
But was happy that the paper was published.

He meant the common Newspaper was Communist.
Unfortunately, Capitalism can have those same problems;
We used to call it Feudalism, Mercantilism,
Guilds that controlled all trade.

He mentioned going to college.
One hundred thousand dollars of debt
I’d probably never pay off.

He mentioned painting.
I’m a writer… my soft hands testify
To the fact, and my inherent lack of any other ability.

Yet, there is a guide below giving a writer tips.
Tips I will never follow…
It is not the pretty words that make a poem.

But what it means.
And the fact that there are tips
Shows why the Earth is slowly becoming poor.

II

Seven people read this poem, not one liked it.
It was suggested, “Do what you love, though.”
What I love? I can write whatever I want…
But harsh truths nobody wants.

Do you understand what that suggestion means?
It means none of you will eat.
Impossible standards that preclude Shakespeare
From ever making money.

Hypocrites. You self censor, making this profession
Unable to support those who need it.
What if I can… hypothetically,
Write well? Does an artifice of pretty lies
Create your love for poetry?
That isn’t artificial?

Need I write in pentameter?
Need I write in tetrameter?
Need I write at all?
Hypocrites.

So you don’t like reading this…
Well… you pay your twelve dollars to enter a contest
That gives you points.
A racket… I’ll “Write what I love,”
Because what I love is the truth.

The truth is… I need to eat.
And this poem is about eating…
It is about truth…
Truth doesn’t need a cozy little “Active Language,”
Nor criticize my helper verbs.
I can take them out, and still write just fine.
I’ve done it all.

The truth… I don’t eat for the same reason you don’t.
Standards that impose harsh taxes on talent
But none on simony.

III

Grammar snobs jeer at a misspelled word.
How it got there, maybe a typo?
In all actuality—a pet phrase, give me that—
You can understand I meant “He”
And not “Me.” Can’t you?

What I really mean to say
Is that the market demand
For “Active Language,”
No, “Mary Sues”
No, “Exposition,”
No, “Creativity,”

Nobody understands the reference to China
I know… So I spell it out rather than leave it as an Easter egg…
Pretentious? Maybe. But I have written the Odes of Brittos.
So… spare me to not write pretty
And to give heed to a whim.

No… nothing is so exceptional about Frost
Yet he’s read like a god.
I don’t want to be a god.
I want to eat, and pave the way so all can eat
With what they work hard to produce.

Do you recognize those suggestions are just to frustrate you?
To tell you, “You will never be good enough
“Because you weren’t born with a silver spoon
“And you weren’t born into society.”

So you wrote like Robert Frost.
Nobody will purchase it
Because one man presides over another
And time and chance forsakes all things
When a writer doesn’t come from the right background.

Yet, work hard he says…
I work hard. The hardest working Bartleby
And will you recognize that’s a reference to Melville?
I’ve scribed in ink several dozen notebooks.
Obviously I’m a Scribner.
I don’t mind hand writing,
Though I’ve been told,
My whole life
That I have a writing disability
AND I CANNOT WRITE!
Hand write.
But, two brief cases worth of handwritten notebooks

I am a hard working Bartleby—
And none of you know the reference, do you?
I don’t insult your intelligence
But that if I wrote Plato’s Republic
With a Heroine out to destroy the society
And perhaps had a few children die
I’d be a millionaire right now.
That’s what you want.

But it’s not what you’re going to get.

IV.

Life is a harsh vicissitude of bitter medicine.
I love my society because I can
As I assumed
Write a communist newspaper
And live.
As stupid as it might seem
To be a communist
And make money on a Newspaper,
As unthankful,
As ungrateful,
It is their right if that’s all that can feed them.

Sitting next to the old man
I thought he was a communist
But he was a die hard capitalist.
Rightly, I can’t tell the difference right now
Between Communism and Capitalism.
We like things neatly defined
But what I told him
Is exactly what I’ll tell you.

You can have any economy under the sun
If you have a just and right people.
Equity cannot be legislated
It must be practiced by every one of us.

But, when I see someone exploiting the hopes
And the dreams, of people who, if given the amount of work
Still cannot earn a living… I tend to question my economy.
Not only because I’ve made a small amount
On what is objectively good poetry…
But the fact that I see this website prescribing me
A style, when I’ve worked 10 years, with over 20,000 hours
Producing my style.

As if a style were all it took to get published
And everyone works hard on perfecting their style
But says the same cliche poems over
And over,
And over,
And over,
And over again.

Rather, I’d take no style
With something meaty to say.
Do you understand?
I hope you do.
A style isn’t worth a damn
If you have nothing to say with it.
And to have the audacity
To tell me a thing about my style
Leads me to believe that it is a corruption
In the market that doesn’t allow
Me, but does allow poets who know nothing
About punctuation
Earn from their work.

Please, indulge me in this…
Like I said it’s simony
And I use it to connote
That rather than sell our work
We buy our work, as Authors
Which means that people don’t read our work
But us.

To which I would reply,
Then if nobody looks at a painting
Nobody reads a book
Nobody listens to a song
Nobody watches a chess game
Nobody buys a wooden duck
Nobody appreciates a little crystal swan
Nobody appreciates a hand carved folk art piece
Nobody desires to look at Venus or David…
Then really, there can only be poverty.
Those things are what make us human,
And to realize that we add salt to this life
Of humdrum, and not only that
But teach and hand down traditions…

It’s difficult for me to communicate what I mean fully

 

V.

Finally, an Ode

Jane… my beloved Jane…
You’d never get published today.
Love, I love you more than all the rest.

Leo, my good father, Leo…
Nobody would read you.
You are the man who conceived me.

William, oh you wordsmith
Nobody would love you like me.
Nobody… nobody.

Frank… Paul’s a Mary Sue.
Jules… nobody wants to hear about your submarine.
Wells… who cares that you could predict nuclear war.

Beloved’s a weak word…
I love you is a cliche…
Do understand, Amarisa,
That’s what the poem is about.

 

If you liked this poem, please purchase a copy from Amazon. Thank you!

A Father’s Wisdom

O, my books were Corban.

But my dad had needed them

So I could leave him with the peace

That his son would be fed.

 

So Christ said, “Do not make things Corban.”

For the alter is what makes sacred, not the gift,

And the alter is to absolve from sins.

 

Fire works explode the moment I realize

I must do this…

I must keep my blog…

I must advertise…

Know this is what he told me to do

In order to give him rest

That when he is gone,

I will not be poor and an outcast.

 

O, how many times did I want to give up on this blog.

How many times I wanted to give up on my dream.

But, a father’s wisdom, is that he wants his sons to succeed.

So, I listen to him, who finally has bestowed a blessing

On this meek talent of mine,

Which he said to me, “Do not be the one who buries it in the sand.”

So, please, I hope you understand

That many promises I’ve made,

I cannot keep.

I have to eat.

 

If you like what you read

Please purchase my books,

So I can eat, and be happy,

And I wish the same for you.

Thank you.

My Crazy Thought Life

Who Am I?

Who am I?
I speak… how I speak
But there seems to only be falsehood.
Call it Auto Mythology
But my mythology is complete.
The giants are slain;
What were those giants?
They were complexes about not being loved
Being feared, being a bad person.

Now it’s time for the silent,
Whisper of the oboe
To silently steal the show
As peace floods my bones.
I call on You LORD,
All day long;
This talent I love.
Give me my wife and children
And my talent.
I have invested it?
Haven’t I?
I’ve given the world
Hope, in an age where it is small.

LORD, here is my honest opinion.
It’s time for the mythology to end.
The fields of giants
In my life, that being the torpid
Regrets of my past mistakes
The belief that nobody would love me:
Elisha… I write this.
I feel like I’m in a drawn bath.
Like a wind is brushing against my palm.

This talent I love
For I serve God with it:
I speak wisdom,
I break the clods.
What are the clods?
Deleted words
Learning grammar
Struggling to learn my craft
Obtaining true wisdom;
Perhaps, perhaps, some clods I don’t understand.
For I write on this sheath
Believing in the future.

My friend told me:
“We’ll blow ourselves up.”
LORD, you know this is not true.
If a conspiracy is found against me
Let me never see it.
For who am I?
This writer?
Not Judas Son of James
Not Beowulf the Less
Not the Prince of Scots;
What am I?
I am a writer
Who loves my craft.
And thank you,
Pages of this Sheath,
For being my psychologist.
For accepting me,
When nobody else would.
Here, I feel open and at home.
I feel like I have a voice
And even if only a few listen to it
It’s there for someone to see;
And if someone sees it
They see me.
Alabaster Straw

Slowly moving to the tempest rhythms
Is the time signature of Alabaster Straw
The rooted worth of the wrings
Of torpid bells upon the shining cavalcade.
There, cavalcade of alabaster
Trot through your stables of Alabaster Straw
As the tempest knells ring
For the shooting wars of the brigade.

Jeweled sandstone
The Arabian Knights
March through your deserts:
So says the Huns,
Coming back from the war with you.
Huns, Arabians
Meet for the final clash.
The Arabian Knights
Move through alabaster straw
The Cavalcade of one hundred strong.

Ring knell, ring, the repentant soul speaks:
“Alabaster Knight! So comes Attila the Hun;
Ready to war with the Knights of the Desert Alabaster Stone.”
Thus, the Prince of Thieves speaks to me:
“I’m coming for you.”
I do not blush, but reply,
“Here comes the Cavalcade
Your Cavalcade
To fight Attila the Hun;
Yet, the mighty Nethanim march behind me.”

Their war means nothing to the Nethanim
Whose power is high;
Faith brings them power
So crafts cannot prosper against them.
There they are, ten thousand strong
Arrayed in rows:
God’s angels steeped in goodness
Stand aside
As the World,
Attila and the Prince of Thieves
Ready for their war cry.

Slowly moving to the tempest rhythms
There comes the Alabaster steeds
And the Huns in armament against.
Reach for the heavens
Prince of Thieves,
Here’s my army of Angels
Ready to thwart you.
Attila is your equal.
The Nethanim are your fear.
For I am the name you fear:
St. Praise the Wise Praised
Changing Broom Tree Upon a Hill
Diadem of the New Son of Israel.

Fear not my name
Prince of Thieves:
For I have spoken kindness to you.
Thwarting me brings you only pain
I know it: For there are others whose
Interest is in my hurt.
Continue, Prince of Thieves
With thy breeding of thy steeds.
For they are stallions;
I am a Third Order King, of the Sainthood
I abscond my kingdom here on the Earth. Selah.

 

My Sisyphean Myth Persona

So, what delusion is this
To think I’m actually Judas Son of James?
What delusion is this,
To think there are Kings from Hell?
What delusion is this
To think that Satan has a galaxy ring?
What delusion is this?
It’s just my myth;
Don’t believe it.

Remember, friends
That the mind is a seal of all sorts of dreams.
My dreams come here, and I express them free.
My actual life is not so boring,
But painful to speak.
A divorced family
Constant bullying
Two very tragic sins
Captivity,
And the hope for revival.
Not a spy,
Not a prince
Not Judas Son of James;
A Saint, yes.
Perhaps, friends,
Perhaps, I am God’s servant.
Not Cyrus, not a false prophet
For I don’t prophesy;
I don’t claim to have written scripture.
For, if I prophesy, I do so foolishly.

I say this: I’m a lover, a fighter, a rebel
But also a Saint.
Sainthood comes from owning your past
Bearing your consequences
And hoping God can fix all of it.
Just know, friends, just know:
I’m not so deluded as you think.
It’s just fiction: And fiction
Is in part dreams.
The myth won’t destroy me
Because it is just myth.
There are no kings seeking to destroy me:
For what? They don’t exist.
Understand, citizens of the world:
This myth is simply myth.
A myth of Sisyphus.
For I am not Sisyphus
And there is no boulder.
For, world, are you so deluded
To think that there are kings?

Here is this writer’s persona,
Pushing that boulder up the hill
And it falls back upon him
Over and over again;
For he needs a giant to slay.
I don’t; the constant abuse I’ve suffered from peers and family
Is a giant enough. Where are they?
Do they exist? No.
Don’t get caught in this delusion;
It’s just a world I’ve invented
Where I play as a character.
Not me, but a self-insert;
Heroic, bold, but in real life I’m just
As pathetic as the rest of mankind.
So, who do I put forward?
Me, or this? I’ll be Stan Lee
My Persona Peter Parker
And Judas Son of James my Spider Man.

Little Mead

Upon the halls with Beowulf
There stood Unferth, of course
Beowulf indeed.
There stood Unferth and Beowulf
So here is the story of Little Mead.

There he drank his honey wine
And listened to Beowulf boast
So once our hero was finished
Little Mead called a toast.
But Unferth took to table
And gave his cacophonous cry.
There Beowulf challenged him
With a story for all times.
But Unferth spoke no goodness
And Beowulf was left aghast
Until Little Mead, that scrawny fellow
Took Unferth to task.
“Unferth, thou silly soul
Doth thou not see he?
His muscles are strong
His hair is long
And his sword reaches
To his knees.
For, what warrior are you
Unferth, who ever fought that Grendel?
Me, I know my smallness
For it is to I that Beowulf is lended
So Beowulf will fight the demon
Within this hallowed hall
And that Grendel will be defeated
When Beowulf’s war cry is called.”

Then Unferth, big and mighty
Shodded up his girt
And he began to spake of Little Mead
To his very hurt.
“What has thee, Little Mead
Done so mighty brave?
I see your scrawny form
And your sword easy to break.
What is this? Damascus steel
Nay, t’is only bronze.
Your sword is weak
Your flesh is meek
And I have killed many sons.
Giants and warriors innumerable.”

Beowulf, hearing the fight, took to table with might
And then said to Unferth, these faithful words it’s true:
“Unferth, thou art a silly man, to think thy talk is good
For a giant you slayed? Then Grendel you would have two.
For so you speak so bravely, yet this little man has heart
That he looks to his heroes, and encourages them by far.
For if I could have jumped a furlong, I now could jump twain
And If I could slay a Giant, Grendel’s arm I could now break.

Grendels we all know,
And Unferths are very gay;
Yet Unferth is more intolerable,
For he speaks what no brave man would say.

For a Beowulf is strong, but a Little Meads are stronger.
A Little Mead encourages the mighty
And gives them courage to fight a little longer.

For, Little Mead would die against Grendel this is true.
But, the very fact of the matter is, so very much would you.”

 

Neifert, B. K. My Collected Writings. Kindle Direct, 2017.

Why I Love India

A billion people in the world

I knew nothing about it.

Until I realized it was pretty important.

 

I see you where we were in the 1920s.

Ready to burgeon, and bring your people food.

Ready to bring your people houses.

Shelter.

 

A poem I read spoke eagerly about maybe this being the year

That India will have its stand in the market.

A drought I read about, was bad.

Yet, freely you have the press…

You have your free internet.

You have your freedoms to read just about every poem I’ve ever written.

Gladly, I want you to have my style home…

I want you to have rain,

And cornfields, and cotton fields

And peach trees, and vineyards.

I want your poor to be fed.

I want your people to not live in sheds.

I want them to have nice sized homes.

It’s a lie that you can’t… it really is.

There’s plenty of land, and there’s plenty of air

To give you all nice homes.

Communism won’t do it…

Capitalism might.

But… You’ll have to patronize artists.

You’ll have to patronize hard work.

If you want my type of house…

If you want my privileges—

And I’m privileged, along with all of America—

You have to take your freedom of speech

And speak out with every ounce of who you are.

You have to understand, in my society it is not unjust.

But injustice exists.

Your country, injustice exists, much worse than in mine.

But… I want you to eat.

I want you to have vineyards, and shelters.

But you have to speak out.

You have to participate in your government.

You have to, like me, talk your lips off…

You have to make a lot of wrong predictions

Before you can start getting them right…

You have to frustrate entire countries.

 

I fight for you,

For China,

For Russia,

For America,

For Brazil,

And all of Africa

Asia, Europe…

Because I have a good life.

And I can’t believe that you don’t.

But, if I’m leveled into poverty

After a significant amount of effort and hard work…

What does that say for you?

You may not hate me…

You may actually like me…

But I want all of you to eat

And even be Christian…

Yes, because I know your religion frustrates you…

But you know as well as I do that there is a spiritual truth.

Why not just bow to one God?

Instead of many?

Why not bow down to Christ?

I have a notion to believe

That’s why my society prospered,

And as we run away from that fairness

And equity of hard work ethics

And food is plentiful…

Jesus brings rain.

I’ve prayed for it several dozen times

Silently, so nobody would hear.

Precisely what I pray happened.

I have no explanation for it.

The mantel of my religion

And my society’s success

Rests on you… here it’s slipping away.

Where you are, I can see it happening.

Remember that Israel, our nation

Did a lot of hard work to make a desert green.

But, rains testify one last thing

That for them to come, there must be a blessing.

Here, there will probably be forests that turn to deserts.

The opposite is true. A desert can turn into a forest.

I can testify, that if it’s not the case

Than the rains that I’ve prayed for

Must not have shed upon the emerald grass.

 

I don’t want to come off pretentious.

I truly just want to bring Christianity

Rain, food…

And I can’t. You can’t.

Only Christ can.

And He will if you accept Him.

That’s a promise.

My Last Post About Never Posting

Writers are neurotic.

We all know this.

We all want to, like Jeremiah,

Shut up…

But we cannot.

How I wanted to put away the pen several thousand times.

Life would be easier if I could go work at a warehouse for a little above minimum wage.

Live in a little shanty hut like in Rio.

 

What made my writing chaff

Was that the Aliens and Sedition acts were passed by Congress.

A long time ago, like 1800’s long,

But essentially,

It precludes me from free speech.

But, I’ll challenge it.

Never knew Madison was a tyrant;

But, you know, I have to criticize

Otherwise we all might end up like Rio.

I like having options.

I like that I can make money on my writing.

I like that the guy at Panera Bread made 30 cents an hour

And became an obviously rich man.

I just think it’s a lot harder these days,

If not impossible,

To follow in those footsteps.

I’d like it to be available to everyone,

Not just a privileged few.

 

I was having a conversation in a dream

With a “King”, and he said ya’ll make 30,000

Dollars today’s money—the poorest—

If we diversified the markets.

So ya’ll could make money writing

Painting, cooking, carpentry.

I thought to myself that 30,000 dollars today’s money

Could buy me a nice life;—

And I wouldn’t have to go into substantial debt

Nor work like a dog to get it.

Rather, to eat off of your own labor

And to be free.

That sounded like Capitalism to me,

And it sounded fair.