Red, white, simplicity in name.

Not always, from place to place same.

More tart than Pepsi’s cloying sting

More bubbles on my tongue it brings.


It is more clean than Blue’s red-white

Yin and Yang, that tart acrid, flattened bite.

I’d never know it’s citrus, vanilla

Cinnamon and Cola’s nutty caffeine.


Yes, I like Coca-Cola because it tastes less sweet.

When the Wicked Rise

“When the wicked rise, men hide themselves: but when they perish, the righteous increase.” Prov. 28:28


Strong idle forces of the winds of tempest, fallen the winds of Wrong,

They blow from the oceans nare the hearths’ glow, but are black as Sackloth.

They churn, bubble forth, to unveil the land, T’yeer-Na-n-oge’s plains.—

The land whose inhabitants are naught dead nor alive, yet are they.

The land of the Fairy-lORD, the place of imagination’s vice.—


The foaming oceans blaze the white cream-sop, the Pookahs run the beach.

Oh, the Fairyland of T’yeer-Na-n-oge, they run to and fro

Unaware of the blooming heather’s purple, crimson orange peep,

Where the blue hues of the clouds above glow fiery, furnace red

On the sunset day, whence the ocean foams, to T’yeer-Na-n-oge.


The lovely maidens hide in their houses, from that T’yeer-Na-n-oge;

The old women are hid in the stone towers, of T’yeer-Na-n-oge.

For neither death nor life are granted here, in that T’yeer-Na-n-oge.

Where are you, O’Donahue? White rider with the serpent crushed forth?

You who had been to T’yeer-Na-n-oge, rise from sky-foam, ocean wave.



The Sheep Gate, in Hexameter

A man has found every moral there is, softly thinking strong forms

Of man’s greatest aspirations, lofty,—so found a god through them.

For, morals can be discovered by all, some like calculus solved

Ever so meticulously and long; others like addition

Were found by merely adding one plus one—that would be golden rules.

However, why is there only one name, which will save a man’s life?


Because one name, Jesus Christ, had found them, every moral we know

And had preached it to the whole of the earth, every moral we know.

Some say He borrowed from everyone else;—others that He was wrong.

Rightly, if He did borrow all morals;—how did He find them all?

He found war, and told all men not to fight; for He would fight for us.

He told men to obey authorities;—He told men when not to.

If there is not one name under heaven, then all our knowledge is

Scattered abroad in thousands of thinkers, whom we will never find.

This is why there is only one sheep’s gate;—yes, just one name that saves.

Because the smartest among us couldn’t, no they could not even

Figure the sum of half our moral truths;—thus, we must procure faith

In that humble LORD of the Sabbaoth—Jesus Christ is His name.

Morals of Christ

Talking on the internet today

The woman asked me a question.

“How do you know that the morals of Christ’s are morals?”

I stood puzzled, and then realized the brilliance of Euclid.

It is something that most philosophers have never had the pleasure of doing.

I did it first with a penny and a piece of string.

I found that the penny, which has a diameter about an inch

The string around its circumference is about 3.14.

I answered her the same way.

I know no other way of explaining it,

But, the fact remains that a brilliant mind had to create the algebra of

πd=C. It took a minute for me to understand how they invented pi.

They measured a circle’s circumference with a diameter of one.

Furthermore, I looked at Christ’s morals.

It might seem like a rote formula to most,

But, given the right mind—

And presuming it to be true because we all have a lot of faith in that little formula


It becomes clear that those are the right moral principles.


My Monochrome

I understand what it is to do a white painting.

Just solid white.

The theory behind it is

That you have set up the canvas

And anything is possible on it.

The canvas is primed

For whatever will be drawn on it.


It is the same as a blank page to me.

Yet, I can stare at it

And get the same

Soothing effect

Of not having to put the subconscious torture

Of another word on the white paper.


Yet, torture I must

For a writer has only one canvas—

A blank page.

A painter has as many as there are colors.

Solid white, the painter makes it

So they can put to work and make something



Me, the soothing effect of the blank page

On my screen

I cannot communicate

Except to write a poem about it.


It’s been done several score dozen of times.

The mind whispers.

It breathes.

The frankness of it all

Is that I have written works…

I have prophesied.

When Jonah’s failed

We called it repentance.

When mine failed

I called it a hallelujah.


Mind me when I say that the blank page here

Is cathartic because it can be anything.

How do I know there is a God?

Because there is.