The True Artist Lives By His Art, or Dies. He Does No Harm to Anyone for not Receiving Him.
There it is
Red in the cup.
The proverb says
Do not look at it,
Do not linger long at it.
It goes down smooth.
Hecate puts the blood of deer
Into her pot…
A dash of Kohl,
Leaven and anise.
Is there also the juniper berry?
It’s curse is luck…
The luck of turning what we dread
Into joy.
It’s not hopeless.
This is why I write.
The curse lifts with a desire to end it.
Desire… then comes the waters to drink.
There it is
Red in the cup.
The proverb says
Do not look at it,
Do not linger long at it.
It goes down smooth.
Hecate puts the blood of deer
Into her pot…
A dash of Kohl,
Leaven and anise.
Is there also the juniper berry?
It’s curse is luck…
The luck of turning what we dread
Into joy.
It’s not hopeless.
This is why I write.
The curse lifts with a desire to end it.
Desire… then comes water to drink.
Democrat, Republican;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Crypts, Bloods;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Pepsi, Coke;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Libertarian, Green;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Communist, Capitalist;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
CNNABCMSNBCCBS, Fox;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Ugar, Jones;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Hacker, Provider;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
The myth of the Harpy and Valkyrie
Is that their feuds,
When they have finally snared enough men in their nets
Convince them to set fire to the earth
For the jealousy of Man’s love.
One has spotted wings
And the other speckled;—
Also, they both hate one another
Because of it.
With his feet on mounds
He walked;—on two sides were walls.—
Walls from a nightmare.
He published peace, so may know;—
Ashur broke Eons ago.
A torrent comes
And goes…
It knocks me out.
Please, understand…
Prufrock
With his brown eyes
I do not wish to be him
Who recites a word like it was
Homer’s; like he were speaking the words of Beowulf’s monk;
Like Milton’s Paradise Lost were his,
Like he authored the Inferno.
The word he said was more like a fart joke
Than high poetry.
If seen,
If viewed…
Please don’t patronize polished turds.
I have a bad tick.
Grace heals it until I doubt.
Grace heals it again.
What if as frequently as you fed others
In Heaven, God would cook for you?
What if, the greatest you gave on earth
God would give to you?
What if every time you accompanied the prisoner
God, in heaven, would enter into your home?
What if, for every person you bestowed kindness
God would show a kindness to you?
What if heaven followed your life’s seasons,
And those seasons you “slipped,”
God would be elsewhere?
What if whenever the homeless found comfort in your house
God would give you room and board in his very mansion?
What if every good deed on earth
In heaven, God did equal the deed for you?
What if heaven has seasons
And for every kindness bestowed
On another human being
God bestowed an even greater kindness.
In our seasons, God gave us according to our seasons?
Like spring, winter and fall,—
Summer seasons,
The wet seasons,
Would be the seasons we gave to the homeless
Fed the widows,
The orphans
And showed kindness?
What if the least we could offer was lip service?
What if the least of kindness
Was “Sharing” the gospel?
What if the greatest was showing the gospel?
What if God didn’t want us to argue about whether He existed
But rather showed He existed
With our goodness here on earth?
What if this is what Christ meant by saying,
“Store up your treasure in heaven.”
What if every shekel you gave to the poor
Were worth a talent of gold in Christ’s kingdom?
What if, being very poor,
That same shekel were worth ten talents of gold?
What if, being the widow
Who put in her mite,
You received a thousand talents of gold,
And two thousand talents of copper?
And with this God would spend to build you a mansion?
What if by giving tents to the homeless
God would provide in your mansion
An entire corridor?
What if by giving a book,
You received a library?
What if by giving time
You received time with the Father himself?
Whose stew is better than even the heavenly food?
What if God’s greater servants
Would be your reward,
For living life with luke-warm kindness?
You would be approached by them
Much like one is approached by a Count
Instead of a Prince
Or a Marquis instead of a King?
What if there are some
Who spent an entire lifetime being good
Believing in Christ’s grace
And Grace Salvation
But did very little?
For those internal acts
God might send a Duke
Or a Viscount
Or a Baron.
But, those acts of kindness
The great feats which we accomplished
To help the poor, the homeless
The downtrodden,
What if Christ the King Himself
In the Flesh God gave Him
Or the very Father Himself
Came to your home
Each season at its season
For eternity, and for that season
He came?
Perhaps, this is a good way of looking at Works.
There were two walls
Which opposed one another.
One was made of corn.
The other was made of mud.
The bodies of the slain in war
Were the straw that bound the mortar
Of the two walls.
The multitudes slain were like that of
A multitude, that of thirty-eight thousand, thousand;
And the other wall was more than this
Whose skulls shewn through the mortar.
Evil was on both sides, and neither side had righteousness.
Now is a time for talk, and not for war.
A woman makes a kerosene lamp
And pops popcorn in a Pepsi can.
Two women replicate the task,
And don’t understand kerosene is dangerous.
Unfortunately, it claims a life.
In my back yard, fifty caliber rifles
Semi Automatic rifles, pistols
All echo down the valleys
From the local gun ranges.
I feel perfectly safe, though I hear them.
In fifty percent of the nation’s back yard
The same thing happens
But bodies end up being wheeled out
Of the local urban blocks.
They feel threatened because they hear them.
My friend makes napalm
Rides with one fist wrapped around a tractor
And a foot loosely straddled to the only sliver
Wide enough to get a foothold.
He blows up groundhog nests with the napalm.
A city dweller thinks a groundhog looks
Like a bunny rabbit,
Grows attached to it
And then hears this story and is disgusted.
I sit for ten hours scraping meat off of a butchered cow.
Hours earlier, the owner was chest deep in its guts.
We sit, and pleasantly discuss life plans
And enjoy the day; it’s a pleasant afternoon.
Another person has never seen something die…
Except maybe a roach or ant…
And then gets offended at the mere thought.
Nor can he imagine the fat littered around the grass
Looks a lot like white rubber.
A baby Inuit plays with a knife at three months old.
A conservative farm boy shoots a .22 caliber rifle
At seven. He also goes four wheeling and dirt biking
And swings on a rope that hangs over his dad’s wood shed.
Civilized society can’t even hold a sharp knife until they are ten;
Are strapped in a car seat until they are about a grown adult
Don’t understand that fire can burn;
And don’t understand that knives are sharp.
These two worlds are clashing right now.
They are our Republican and Democrat respectively.
And like an Ulcer, the pain gets worse
Right before it heals.
What will heal it
Is to know that when you see more trees than people
It’s different than when you see more people than trees.
I think J.D. taught me this.
If you like what you’ve read, click the link below and purchase a copy or two of my books.
What interests me,
Is that in youth,
We don’t care who sung a song.
Flagrantly, it could have been the most foul human being in the world.
Try and tell us who it is,
Who sung it, we’d deny it.
We wouldn’t want to believe it.
We’ll greatly deny the truth
Because we like the song.
In older years,
Who the artist is makes all the difference.
One can hear a song
Sung the same
By two different people.
One a good man
The other a bad…
Each with there slightly different tune.
I can’t listen to the one anymore…
Though their songs used to be so beautiful.
A man makes the meaning.
Johnny Cash sings the song good.
It now means something different
Because Johnny had sung the song.
Same lyrics… same chord progression.
But it means something different
Being sung by by a different man.
And how the man makes the meaning
Even as much as the poetry we read.
One man is Elvis;
The other Homer.
They both sing the same gospel hymn.
One is American.
The other is Greek.
One is about salvation.
The other is to scorn it.
The man made the songs
As much as the songs made the man.
A man sings one song,
It means a different thing
When it is sung by a different man.
The men sing their songs
Different, though the same lyrics
Because it is the man who made the lyrics mean
What they meant.
If you like what you’ve read, click the link below and purchase a copy or two of my books.
B. K. Neifert 