1. A Redacted Quora Answer On a Poem for How I Feel Today

I read him... and I know now.
I am only as good.
Time and chance take the world by storm...
The prize is to the politicker,
The master is the one whom is bestowed graces.

As I realize, a certain politician
Was the only one my dad feared to criticize
As his voice cracks and he tries to sound tough
But I know it is dangerous.
Never were Americans afraid of a president like he were a king.

And eight years ago, the plague had not come,
And I say, "Listen to thy poets,"
But no one does,
As I made popuri out of yarrow
And diligently made sure it wasn't tansy.

The wall of computers now are our hell
And do our deepest thoughts.
The school is for teaching you how to prosper
Not to teach you eternal truths.

And I say, "When shall I be enraptured?
"This is not my America, where the small town must poke
"Rifles out their window, to shoot the mad men from the city
"Who wish to kill the farmer."
And the Country Boys sing of the stars falling
And the Black Boys sing of their father the thief.

I am told it was always so...
Yet Papa was a rolling stone
And there was poetry in our people at a time long ago.
Now the white nigger flashes his wads of cash and glocks
And the country star inartfully sings his war propaganda.

I say... it has not always been so.
For today, more than any other time,
There is no poetry.

©2025 B. K. Neifert
All RIghts Reserved

I read him... and I know now.
I am only as good.
Time and chance take the world by storm...
The prize is to the politicker,
The master is the one whom is bestowed graces.
As I realize, a certain politician
Was the only one my dad feared to criticize
As his voice cracks and he tries to sound tough
But I know it is dangerous.
Never were Americans afraid of a president like he were a king.
And eight years ago, the plague had not come,
And I say, "Listen to thy poets,"
But no one does,
As I made popuri out of yarrow
And diligently made sure it wasn't tansy.
The wall of computers now are our hell
And do our deepest thoughts.
The school is for teaching you how to prosper
Not to teach you eternal truths.
And I say, "When shall I be enraptured?
"This is not my America, where the small town must poke
"Rifles out their window, to shoot the mad men from the city
"Who wish to kill the farmer."
And the Country Boys sing of the stars falling
And the Black Boys sing of their father the thief.
I am told it was always so...
Yet Papa was a rolling stone
And there was poetry in our people at a time long ago.
Now the white nigger flashes his wads of cash and glocks
And the country star inartfully sings his war propaganda.
I say... it has not always been so.
For today, more than any other time,
There is no poetry.

I think to rebel against good Jesus:
"You do not ever establish Your good law.
"No, Your flock now preaches sin is okay,
"And my poverty is proof of that. I'm
"Mocked and berated and called a fool by
"All Your people, and called a heretic
"For trying to live righteously." I sigh.
"Yet, will the world accept your law, though
"I know not even Your flock does? I love
"Your law, it is my whole meditation.
"Once again, will the atheist forgive 
"My debt? No, they will never. Thus, only 
"You have the power to forgive. Christians
"Will not love me, atheists neither. Yet
"You forgive all debtors. So I believe.
"Is there great reward for me on this Earth?
"None that I can see... for I love you LORD
"Yet why does Your hand not reach down and pluck
"Me from my desperate state? Why am I mocked?
"Why am I teased and called a fool by all?
"Ah, 'tis only consistent with Your Word.
"For the righteous suffer long in this life.
"Now I understand, my LORD, Your great truth."

As a poet, I put my heart to school,
Listening carefully to my tutor's words.
They impressed upon me, though once a fool,
A wide girth of knowledge and no great curse.
I saw the hyacinth grow, tuft to bell,
And its sweet perfume was sweet to my nose.
For life without poetry would be hell,
So no snob of this age can turn me cold;
Though they write upon my gray epitaph:
"He was lame, and dull of mind and so dumb,"
I harmed, know this all, I harmed at the last
Through my heart's pleasing epistles no one.
For without my songs I would then turn dark
And never found God, I would not be smart.
And at last, with fortunes made I'd turn black;
And upon my good God have turned my back.
For with the knowledge of this shining craft,
I have made to God a divine road-map.
I have laughed, and shed many a clear tear
And written of peace, for two dozen years.