Category: Poetry

Covid-19

Why I’m not mad at God

Is because it’s people who did this.

 

We want to believe we can be sinners

Without repercussion.

George Soros will stand to make a killing off this plague

Along with every other billionaire.

The stock markets will be tanked,

And billionaires will buy up all of the cheap shares.

Then, more will fall under their control.

They will make lots of money.

 

Say there really is a body piling up plague

That needs mass graves.

I highly doubt it, but let’s pretend like it’s so.

Then what?

Billionaires will still profit off of it.

The government will be destroyed as we know it

For into eternity, everyone will be traumatized

By it, and will never be able to allow themselves to get close to another human being

Again.

 

Which is why we deserve what’s happened.

During the Spanish Flu,

During the Black Plague

People got over it.

Yes, many people died,

But what do I have to fear?

I’m more afraid of my government pulling this trick

At every swine flu,

Every SARS outbreak,

Onto eternity,

With my grandmother stuck in a nursing home with no help

My brother laid off of work and down a couple thousand dollars of loan money

Which he spent to get his education.

 

Frankly, I’m disappointed in the whole thing,

And hope to God that if this is real

I fall on my face and die soon.

Because the political ramifications are going to echo on for a long time

As everyone will live in their little conceited bubble

Of worlds with sterilized drones

Flying in packages from Amazon

On Elon Musk’s rocket ships.

Then, everyone will be afraid to go outside

To talk to one another…

They call it “Social Distancing” right now.

To be honest, I hope I die,

And if I don’t, I will do everything I can to get infected with this disease

Living my life like it weren’t even around.

The reason why is that a world where this becomes normal

Is a world I do not want to live in.

The American Leprechaun

Those Leprechaun’s in Ireland were old cobblers,

But the ones in America old shrews.

A Leprechaun in Ireland worked all his days;

Why, the American one worked few.

 

Not did the Leprechauns in America

Tap or tick the shoe,—

Neither did they write, make clocks or sweep chimneys, too.

No, rather, they horded up all their gold

And set their gold at the edge of a rainbow.

 

It would never grow big or small,

As a men would chase it—

Such was the Leprechaun’s law

That whoever found the treasure could have it.

 

The Leprechauns spent all day making gold with usury

Laying up their treasures in the banks;—

Where they’d collect dust and stank.

 

So, the Leprechauns in Ireland made a pact;

 

One day, there came a rainbow over the hills

Quite majestic, it laid three bows above the head.

A man named Phineaus found it,

And laid mighty still, to see if

The rainbow would stay its breadth—

Never thought he’d be a rich man instead.

 

The Rainbow grew

Over ol’ Phineaus’ head;

Rainbows, did, somewhere on the earth lay,

Now he would have his daily bread.

 

Phineaus, as he walked

Grew ever more doubtful of what he should find,

Until at the end of the rainbow,

One, two, three bows high

He did walk into the Leprechaun’s mine.

 

Amazed, there were treasures in that trap

Enough for a dragon’s den.

Phineaus marked the way on a map—

For the magic of the rainbow endtd—

Thus, set the map back, and took his pocket full of gold.

He sought to make rich the townsfolk

Who were blackened with poor, both young and old.

 

It came to be that the mine was dug

Every gold piece was stolen to the shilling.

When the Leprechauns of America came by

They realized they had just made a killing—

They heaped up a crevice of gold—

But when found their stash

Had been plundered by the town of Caberdash

Those Leprechaun’s now should know…

 

Thus, the day toiled, the Leprechauns were white

They saw all their gold stolen on one sleepy night.

A shoe was in the pit, it lay like day,

With a hammer and a mite of copper placed—

A note said this,

“Leprechaun’s are hard working folk,

“Who do not store up treasures to bray.

“For when we find one worthy

“We open our horde to make one very lucky soul so gay.”

Christus Miraculous

In every man is a feral wolf.

A shadow.

Pure aggression.

Pure hatred.

Pure violence.

Pure lust.

 

When he is in our conscious

We have no reason to dream.

Rather, we act on his impulses

Making love with whomever we want.

Killing with words and insults.

Hide him, we begin to see the man we truly

Were, making love in our dreams

Killing, pillaging, destroying.

 

When, however, he is not hidden

When he is in our actions and daily lives,

We do not perceive what he is doing.

We do not know how rotten we truly are.

We say of ourselves, “I’m a good person.”

Meanwhile, we exclude others.

Meanwhile, we make unabashed love

To every sex organ that will allow us…

When we’ve truly shocked ourselves

We begin to make it a part of our personality

Insisting that we were born this way.

It is true… that we were born with this apparition.

This thing that will legalize every crime

So we get off Scot-free.

 

Soon, it becomes us.

Its fears, its impulses

Its resentment, the animal.

It writhes in our bones.

Feral, we live unhindered by every one of our wicked devices.

 

What does Christ do for us?

He chains this abomination,

And with enough prayer, fasting and love,

He casts the very thing into the sea.

That is what Christ offers his servants.

He removes this violence in us

And binds it first in our dreams.

Then, the cur unlooses,

And is killed—

He is killed on Christ’s body

And when Christ arises,

It is us, our new man.

 

That should be religion…

The removal of this animal in us.

If our genes are that of a homosexual

Murderer, rapist or adulterer,

That shadow will be thrown off

And renewed in Christ.

It is a miracle—

It is a transformation.

And, it is true that it can be healed.

 

The Two Servants of God

There were two men.

One of the men murdered

One of the men committed adultery

One of the men blasphemed unto death

One of the men had made fraudulent oaths.

The other did none of this

But rather had unbelief.

 

The first man,

Seeing he had been pardoned for all of his sin

Decided that it was good.

So, he lived his days securely

Never in fear of judgment.

He spent his days cheerfully

Giving to the poor and receiving nothing in return.

He builded houses and churches and places of rest

For the poor, and thanked God every day

That his blasphemies, oaths, murders and adulteries all were forgiven.

For, he was happy that he was permitted to do his good deeds in the name of the

Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

 

The second man

He did not see a reason to be pardoned from his sins.

He decided that he was good.

So, he lived his days securely

Never in fear of human justice.

He spent his days cheerfully

Not giving much to the poor, but rather expected every borrowed thing to be returned in measure,

As was the custom.

He did not thank God, but rather thanked himself

For all of the provisions he had stored up for himself.

He was happy, and decided that he did good deeds enough,

Sufficient that he had never thought he had sinned.

 

It came to a time when both men died,

The righteous man with the hypocrite.

 

The Father asked the first man,

“What had you done?”

The man replied,

“Nothing father.”

The LORD said,

“Well done good and faithful servant.”

 

The Father asked the second man,

“What had you done?”

The man replied,

“Oh, Father, I made a fortune, and blessed myself upon the Earth.”

The LORD said,

“What had you done with your sustenance?”

The man said,

“Well, I spent it for my stomach.”

The Father said,

“What of the poor?”

The man said,

“I’ve given some to the poor.”

The Father said,

“Yet, I have another man who had just died today.

“He had given much to the poor, more than his ten percent.

“Though, he had never made much, nor blessed himself

“On the earth, he was neither rich, nor satisfied with his life

“Except in his giving.”

The man then said,

“Well, what must I do to be saved?”

The LORD said,

“Be gone, I never knew you, you proud and wicked servant.”

The Modern Reichstag

A thousand writers lay before me

Their thoughts contained in the jars

Of wood pulp, ink and glue.

Numerous thoughts lay before me…

Seneca, Livy, Horace

There in used copies at the bookstore.

Where are they sold now,

New, in those beautiful Penguin and Oxford bindings?

I don’t see them on the shelves at my local book store.

 

Rather, I get one more rejection letter in the mail

Because I don’t sell a detergent.

I don’t sell deodorant.

I don’t sell left or right politiks.

Soon, that large library will wane

And what will be put in its place

Is the cacophonous voices

Of Fox News Analysts,

CNN and MSNBC commentators,

Politicians and the few Celebrity intellectuals.

No serious works of philosophy, religion,

Art or political science.

 

A thousand voices,

All shut up by populist opinions.

Slowly, we deteriorate,

Until the Reichstag is performed by the almighty dollar.

It’s performed, because all ethics are “Too emotional.”

All philosophy is “Merely speculation.”

Technocratic, we burn our books with our own opinions.

They don’t sell, so are thrown into the flame.

 

I read the famous poets.

None of them wrote like me.

None with the modern story telling element—

The clear language and imagery,

The thematic elements of our modern fantasies.

Why I couldn’t be squeezed into that little space

On the bookshelf I saw,

Why, even though there are thousands of famous writers,

Some I have never even laid eyes upon,

Why cannot I be a part of this tradition?

Rather, we burn Seneca with Bill O’Reilly, Glenn Beck and Rachel Maddow;

Piers Morgan, Anderson Cooper and Milo Yiannopoulos;

We bury Pride and Prejudice with Stephen King, Stephanie Meyers

And George R. R. Martin; Fifty Shades of Gray, Hunger Games

And Divergent.

We praise poets like Ezra Pound—

Never reading the word salad of his

Which no man living can decipher;

I’m not even sure it’s meant to mean anything.

Then, of course, there is E. E. Cummings.

Garbage.

Does anyone read Wordsworth, Byron, Keats or Longfellow?

Essayists, of course, are college students

As Shane Dawson writes like he’s submitting a high school essay

And it prints and sells millions.

Emerson, Thoreau, Montaigne;—

Much more interesting… if they were given a shot.

Yet, I have to search the used book stores for Emerson and Montaigne.

They’re both slowly going out of fashion.

Both kindred souls…

Both so similar in their styles.

Plutarch I found, after some digging.

Herodotus tells me about Ancient Babylon,

Yet somehow the idiots online do not believe historians mentioned it.

A rich source of historical analysis,

Filled with Babylon, Persia, Media, Assyria, Egypt, Mesopotamia,

A Greek historian.

Yet… sadly there is online materials that would “prove”

These empires never existed.

Yale lectures that would even insinuate that they never did.

They find a “Sumerian” empire, and automatically say,

“Well there was no Babylon.”

Wholly forgetting that cultures call themselves by different names

Than other cultures. Germany in America is Deutschland in Germany.

Some idiot a long time from now might speciously believe

Germany never existed because they dug up German artifacts.

 

We’re dealing with a stupid generation

Because books aren’t read,

But podcasts are listened to.

There is not a touchstone to the past

Therefore, anything can be made up about it in the present.

And, my writing has touched the past.

But, they can find no place for it in that empty slot on the shelves.

Because, as it still remains,

I get rejected for having a racist character.

Wholly disposed, that the generation I was writing about

Was saturated by racism, and it was about their only sin most of them.

If we could excuse them of it, and wonder at how they were so far superior

To what we have today…

Perhaps we will have a more educated tomorrow

That doesn’t—as every movie seems to do—

Imprint their own values on the past.

Frankly, every movie you watch about history

Is ensconced in its present’s vices.

The best way to know what history was like

Was to read what was written at that time period.

Often, you’d find the most degenerate scoundrel

Had a heart of gold when compared to our modern man.

And that I find by reading history;

Watching history;

Experiencing history in what are called books.

But, today we’d like to invent it for ourselves

To shape it to our modern way of thinking.

 

Why can’t I be on those shelves

To represent modern man

As he truly is?

 

 

Mourning Dove

The sticks of winter’s hoary frost

Stand dead in March’s bitter cold;

The turtle doves find their soulmates

For the last spring is upon them.

 

Whooo-o: Whoooo: Whoo—Whoo

The turtle doves sing for their mates

The sole occupation of their

Innocent minds. All conversing

With the same melody. Not like

Our long, stronger conversations

Who must bond over complexities.

 

They mindlessly sing long melodies

Of whose sounds similar; I sing

Their song; hope for my turtledove,

That maybe she knows this too. And

I will have more springs to sing songs

To the innocent little birds I love.

 

We turtle doves gives all our cry

For the last spring there will ever be.

Cold, for the February heat.

Whooo-o: Whoooo: Whoo—Whoo.

They find love one last time, as their

Innocent loves become extinct.

 

Until man fixes his cold heart

I will hear this sad song every March.

On my mind will be the lowing

Of the Turtle Doves, wondering

Whether this will be the last Spring.