Category: Poetry

Light

What is seen, is that our geniuses have been forsaken
And intellects which are inferior are trying to piece together
The tapestry of our design.
So, not grasping fully the principles of the past
We move forward, trying to alter them.
Yet, the truths aren't understood
Therefore, we abridge them and distort them
To a point where the grand serenity of our Golden Ages
Is forgotten, and it soon follows that men grow less wise as years pass on.

Imagine Our Earth Were A Book

Imagine our Earth were a book.
And imagine God were the author of that book.
God wrote the book.

And, isn't a book something different
Than our three dimensional world?
It exists purely in thought.
It cannot be accessed
Except by comprehending what the words on the paper mean.

It's the difference between our four dimensional space
And pure imagination.

Now, imagine everything we could experience
Were like that book to God.
And God were like we reading it.
How silly would it be for the characters
In that paper to use the events in that book
To comprehend the man who wrote it.

Such is with Genesis,
That if you authored a book
And edited it
It would look different
Describing the edits you did
Than it would if you read the events
In chronological order within the book.

For we and our history are like the book
And the Bible contains a literal history of 
How it was written;
It catalogs all of its edits
And presents them to us chronologically
In the point of view of God's Eternal Present.

Our Fetishes

The Pigmy in the forest
So I've heard
Found a glass bottle.
The bottle he found, he worshipped.

The tribe turned the glass bottle into their God
Bowed to it, worshipped it,
Set it in its wreath of fine leaves.
It turned their whole village mad.

I look at the fetishes of our culture
How the bottle is almost like our ideas.
They unite us, they divide us,
They disrupt the continuity of the sound mind.

Good ideas---
Well formed ones---
Are free of fetishes.
It is not Post Hoc Ergo Proptre Hoc
But the distilled singularity of the notion
That it will save, redeem,
Bring some awful power into existence
And manifest the miraculous comfort we adore.

Religion is not the same as fetishism.
Rather, fetishism is some abnormal mental defect
Brought on by an object being placed
As the sole foundation of our reason.
If placed there, whether science, race or holy book,
It produces in individuals the divisiveness
Of all of its defects.
For, even the Bible becomes a fetish
To some Christians---
To not understand its sense
But rather get bogged down in the literal interpretations.

For, the chapters of war in the Bible
To my humble intelligence
Are there to ease the conscience of a soldier
Who has done abominable things.
Not a how to guide on war.
And stoning the homosexual or adulterer
Is much the same, that we've all been degenerates at some point in our lives
And must live humbly with the fact that we deserve a lot worse
Than what we get.
Or, the most ridiculous one
That Genesis must be taken literally.
It must be that the earth was created in six literal days
As you ask anyone educated
It's just not something we can literally believe.
Even myself. 
But, if you cannot still believe in Jesus
Despite that, then you hadn't really known Him.
As, it's just the fetish you've created
One which will be destroyed in the end.

The World’s King

Once said to him, "There is a cycle of 
"Good and bad kings. Now we need a good king.
"For before us was a bad king. What do
"You wish your world to choose as their god?"

The boy, brown eyed and straightened hair said this:
"Love." The Giant to whom he spoke, these things
Said, 'That's too ambiguous. It will fail."
The boy stood his ground, and said, "I want love."

Thus, the Giant pondered on it, and said,
"Do you not wish it to be God, like your
"Father before you? It seemed to work well."
The boy said to the Giant these sad words,

"Well, love is god. I wish to have a love
"Which will set the example for all to
"Follow." The Giant grinned a forceful leer.
"Then you wish to make yourself a god? Hmm."

So, the world all could see him, save I
Who saw him in my nightmares which burnt my
Light being to the core of its foundations.
It was as if I had spoken the words.

This man thought the earth was blue and sky bronze.
For he know not aught upon this "blue Earth."
Thus, it was told to him that he would be
A good king. When, indeed, it was all wrong.

For, he is whom the proverb says, "Woe to
"That man who calls evil good, and he calls
"Good evil." For he sees in Earth the Sky,
So, sees in the Sky what is of the Earth.

To Appease the Critic

Your Jester said to your Poet
That it was best to write 
What was lowbrow.
Your Director saw, 
And agreed that
Appealing to the masses was right.
Your Poet, he wanted to stay
The course to his highborn ideals.

I see that by dumbing down your work
You created Faust.

Me, I look at the Postmodernist poems
And if I tried to write a piece
At my absolute worst
It would turn out leaps and bounds
Better than all but two of those.

However, Goethe, those ugly poems
Appealed to the masses,
The masses of critics
Who are the gatekeepers of my success.

And I look at your Faust,
Knowing it was written to appeal
To common men.
And here I am
In my limited Genius
Challenged by it.

So, what justice is there
If Faust were written today
And it were hidden
By a din of critics?

Fetishism

Feminist's Armpits
Black Nationalist's Hair.
White's Materialism.
Gay's Pride.
Fundamentalist's Young Earth.
Atheist's Science.
Muslim's Koran.
Spiritualist's Karma.
Racist's Hand Signs.
Gangbanger's Club Colors.
Progressive's Socialism.
Blue-Collar Masculinity.

To me, it's all like a medicine man
Shaking his stick
And thinking the rain comes from it.

What Lay Beneath

Word and Tao seem to be called opposites
Yet, each speaks to the same discovered truth.
Beyond the legalistic letters we
Try to use, lies the sense of expressed truth.
Not through matter of interpretation
But through matter of the senses given
We understand one another through truth.
Even more, that lay hid beneath all things
Is an unseen force which does define them.
That we, attempting to stray from that path
Do create for ourselves unhappiness;
For underneath everything is the truth
Which cannot be expressed by the letter
But can be  fully expressed through the sense.
For it is this sense which defines all things
And straying from this sense is what creates
Bitterness, malaise and unhappiness.
And this same thing is the proof of God's Will.

Prose Poem

I bought a little book of prose poems, which were all offensive to my ears. Every gaudy little line, every tacky little phrase, every grandiloquent little flowery line. One I read didn't like Hosea, who condemned adulterers to death. I think to myself, "We all deserve to die, you hypocrite." They talk about environmentalism. Offensive, draught, drivel, burning in my ears are these parasitic ostriches, and simplistic metaphors. That such would even be published, that such would even be brought to this mind nurtured and succored on the ancient belles-lettres  of the past. I hate it. Yet, I would have it never burned, for everyone can have their say. For the only offense it has committed against me, is that it is published and I am not. Should my writing be among the principle letters read for generations, this angst would be sufficed, and I would be at peace. Yet, it is the simplicity of this book which causes people to misunderstand the great art form of Poetry. It is like a puzzle, which entails listening for an hour's time to a few hundred words. But, no one will give my poetry the time because simple poems have dominated the market. So I burn with jealousy; and if I should burn in this unrequited passion, I still should not throw the book into the blaze. For, though hot, and angry, and fuming, it will help me understand someone else. And with that is wisdom worth the twenty-four dollars I spent on it.