Objects in My Room

Sits, my famed hexagonal fish tank---
Famed? Is it famed? Someday soon, maybe.
The blue and salmon afghans knit by my Mimi.
The Chess Table, it sits within three borders
One with alternating slanted parallelograms
Carpented by a friend of the family, named Robert Haefer Sr.
The big purple vase sits, with plastic stems and flowers
An inheritance from my Nanny.
Jesus in the Garden of Gesthemeny hangs
With a palm leaf from palm sunday behind it;
An Old Family Heirloom handed down by my Nana.
Behind me, as I sit on my Olive Green La-Z-Boy
Rocking steadily and relaxed,
Are portraits, paintings and a needlepoint of Norman Rockwell
Knit by my Aunt Bob-Bob, from a Magazine.
Such is the wealth of the lower middle class in America.

A Lot of Alliteration

Tip to me the truth, and take my tantrum to task;
Too many trials have taken to my temples
And try to triturate the thronging thump
I tell you the truth... tell me the truth.
Too tall is the triumph, too tormented are my tongues
Of telling truth. Yet, tell truth, and take my toil
Truly,---treasures will start to trickle from towers of tales.

Color Swatches

The sable boy told his truth,
And took the greige sword
And slit the Chok, drawing dragon's blood
Ichor from its veins.
Ponceau rays flooded the sky
As the clouds, with streaks of gamboge
Lighting from the outline of the sun,
Broke, in that moment.
Lovat was the environs around the world
Until the clouds brake.
And then, all was bright again.

 ©2026 B. K. Neifert
All Rights Reserved

Write a Poem About the Changing Seasons, and the Imagery they Invoke

Daffodils, Bluebells, Red Buds, Anemones, Mayapples, Geraniums
Such a season as this, sleepy trees make their buds and awaken.
Roses, Honeysuckle, Squash Flowers, Tiger Lilies, Chicories, 
A beautiful warmth, is Summer, the trees green, oaks, maples, hickories.
Sunflowers, Holly Flowers, Aster Flowers, Hibiscus and then the Phlox finally wilt.
The trees are fire, the junipers and cedars have their berries and sprigs.
Holly Berries, Rose Hips, Bare Trees and Icy Lakes,
There is a cool in winter, the evergreens with white glaze.

Describe a surreal or imaginary place using surreal imagery: The Faerie Wedding

The napkins were velvet,
Bound by strings of pearls
With diamonds sparkling in gold inlay.
The plates porcelain and crystal with gold leaf.
The cutlery vermeil, and supped
On figs, and grapes, and strawberries,
Smoked Salmon and Salami.
Two Eagles, a mating pair
Flew over the feast,
And a mockingbird sung in a cedar.
The children wore their brooch in hair
With diamond crust; the maidens in their silk dress.
The Fairy King, jovial, alighted on every table
To light the incense and off he flew in his three piece suit.
The tea kettle a silver pot, with golden legs...
Ambrosia, nectar, fruits of life.
The fae people, when finished with their meal
Tossed their plates into pits,
Where there, a rainbow fire
Sparkled, and consumed.

Craft a Poem that Explores Love in All its Forms

I enter into you, and feel you.
You feel me inside.
We bear a child,
And we together raise her,
And give her happiness.
Then, when she is grown
We find each other's company
Happy, and are filled with joy.
Then, when one of us dies,
For we will grow old,
We have love enough for everyone we meet.

Write a Tribute to Someone Who has Deeply Influenced My Life

Mr. Neifert, you raised me.
I am bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh.
I have the teeth to prove it.
You kept me sheltered
So I could do something great.
Not so I could conquer worlds
But I conquered myself.

Create a Poem that Captures the Essence of a Favorite Childhood Memory

Pappy, and Grandma, at your house I am safe.
I swim in the shallow pool, I kick my legs:
I am Godzilla fighting a tugboat.
The army men get knocked into the water,
The rubber snake a sea monster
And the rubber shark, too.

Write a Poem About the Beauty of the Night Sky and the Stars

Spring there are no constellations.
David is hidden in the West.
The Triune has yet to appear.
The Virgin and Bear are hid.
Goliath is slain, he does not appear.
Just a void of newness.

Explore the Themes of Resilience and Overcoming Challenges in a Poem

Once upon a time, there was a boy who could imagine anything.
And set to proof, he imagined all he could, and thought,
"I know, I shall make imagination my job."
Thus, he used his imagination every day, all his life.
Yet, there were thieves, robbers, murderers, scounderals
Outlaws, sheriffs, kings, even some gods if you knew
Who were against him in all that he did.
Thus, they came to him, and started altering
His world, just to prevent him from attaining his goal.
They changed his books, they changed his nation's laws
They changed his religion, they even changed the color of his eyes
From blue to green one day---for when he was sad
His seas would turn green, and this was how it was.
Thus, they went to war, just so this boy would be oppressed;
For he could imagine anything, you know?
They were jealous of this ability.
Then, one day, a great army surrounded his city.
And the King of the Army came, with grand pomp and splendor
And said, "Let me see the prince who resides here.
"Let me see him, the one who has caused great calamity upon the Earth."
Thus, they took the boy from his house, and drug him into the streets.
The boy looked guilty in the eyes of all the men who surrounded him
And he finally met his day. Yet, the Boy smiled, and his eyes glistened.
They tortured him for thirty years, in the dungeons of their chambers.
He was sad, pained, in something like hell.
All because he could imagine anything.
And for eternity they tortured him in that dungeon it seemed.
Then they took him out, when he was old and gray
And his visage beautiful.
And they twisted his heart to such evil desires:
And he destroyed all he touched, for they poisoned him with hate.
All because he could imagine anything.
They wanted him to rule the world,
And be strong and a champion.
That they made him, turning his frail body into a chisel.
And he destroyed, from East to West, now the General
Leading the war.
Do you think this just?

Write a Poem Inspired By a Piece of Artwork or Photograph

Little girl, looking up at your grandpa,
As he reads Martyr's Mirror.
His old, Socrates like face,
Bald, and bearded, and gray;
Happy, little cherub look up,
Smartly framed by the book
And his right arm.
Just a cherub face,
So happy. Peace.

Describe a Journey of a River, from its Source to the Sea, using Personification

The great grasshopper dug, fluttering, making Otsego Lake
And there he drug his body down, where another great grasshopper
Dug, from Elmora. The two met in Sunbury, 
The one a male and the other a female.
And there they nested and laid their eggs.
Only one egg survived and hatched, and thus, he also drug his body
Down to the Chesapeake Bay.
A mighty rain came, and filled it all up with water.
And it was called the River of the Muddy People since;
For people lived there, where the three great grasshoppers
Drug their bellies, and carved it out a mile wide;
And the people sloughed through the banks
To make pottery from the Red Clay.

Craft a Poem about the Power and Significance of Words and Language

Modern Mythographers doubt, why do there need to be gods?
Why can't the Greeks and East Indians be seen as fiction?
We have no soul, and no imagination.
Does there need to be belief, to make a mythology?
Or can we just freely create now?
Does every fancy need to become a religion?
Or can we simply live, and understand,
By the power of the tongue?
Know I am a Christian Man, and very European.
I know one myth to be true, but why can't the countless
Others be enjoyed? More importantly,
Why can't the true myths of the world be enjoyed, too?
Can we not understand, even without believing?
For so many believe, without understanding.

©2026 B. K. Neifert
All Rights Reserved

I

There is a certain stubbornness to history. I know not how to quantify it. I only know, what is true today, is gone tomorrow. What was yesterday, no one can find. The Feast of First Fruits, the Feast of Weeks, we celebrate the Harvest when the first crops are coming in. We wave it before the Altar, and are satisfied.

This is the first of the science of Joy. What is your first, is filled with sugars. Therefore, offer it before the Priest, wave it before the Altar, give thanks. It is the first of your production. Enjoy the portion, too. Eat. Feast, rest. And then get back to work.

When there is no harvest, but there is much hoeing of the soil... there is much planting... the rains never come... or too much rain comes, and washes out the soil... one can raise a curse to God, and say "Why have you scorched my work, and why have you washed out my seed?" The stochasticity of the water vapor, though, that is all you curse. 

No, God is much deeper than this, and I wish to expound upon true knowledge. That there is stochasticity, there is choice, there is a randomness to life... that is the law of nature. Why there is choice, why some great men fail or go into obscurity, and why some pathetic men are made into towers. Understand this, you understand a lot of things.

Yet, the portrait of Joy is the topic today. Therefore, when you starve, give thanks to God. When the sun beats down on your harvest, when the winds kick up your dirt, when the waters never come---for there is a drought---praise the LORD. Not to have Him miraculously bring the rains---though He can---not to cause prosperity. For one righteous man dies in his righteousness, and another wicked man dies in his wickedness. One thief lives in luxury, and another honest man lives with his life stolen from him.

Where is the science, though? Where is the truth? Do you know my meditations? Can you perceive it?

II

Thus, consider, there are Acres of Diamonds, said the sophist. Yet, time and time again, staying on your property yields no results, and leaving your property leaves no results. Another man discovers minerals on his land, and another discovers great fortune. Another goes across the sea, and finds gold in yonder rivers.

I want to impress upon you, that this is not where joy comes from. A greedy man has great fortune, and a humble man has none. The humble man is satisfied with little, and the greedy man never satisfied. He must get more... he sees the mansion, and must have it. He sees the rare books, and must have it. He sees the cashmere, the sterling silverware, the golden chains, and must have it. He sees the decadent charcuterie and must have it. While in the moment, at the wedding feast, the wiser of the men eats it, knowing this will be maybe thrice in a well lived life, such a thing will occur. The wicked want it at every meal.

There is such a thing as fortune, where it makes men into dogs. They will bark, they will run through hoops, they will even sell their freedom to obtain it. They don't care, for freedom is less precious to them than the 100K salary. Freedom of Speech they don't need, but a custom motorcycle they do. They don't need the right to religion, but they do need the tattoo. They don't need marriage, but they do need their menstrual blood.

Understand this... about fortune... the wise man is satisfied with little. But, there is another joy, I will tell. A greater joy, if you will just listen. Listen carefully to my speech. I have dark sayings, and wisdom of the ancients. Where is it? It is gone. Thus, joy dissolves from the Earth, for all are in ernest to get and receive, but never to give.

III

True Joy, comes from satisfaction with little. To eat from your labor, this is joy. To have a roast suckling, bread with chewy crust, soup with good spice, and vegetables with sweet and savor, and to say "I have hoed my field, and I have sowed my crop, and I have planed my wood, and I have smithed my hoe, and I have found the keys of knowledge." That is where there is joy.

Yet, consider... men can take this from you. Can they not? If they do not like you, they can make you into an infant. They can take a wise man, and make him foolish. They can make the foolish wise in the world's eyes. They can make Majesty out of the Sloth, and the man who delicately crafts in Marble, and smiths of Iron, and does the engraving, they can make seem the sloth. The man who seeks wisdom, they can make look crazy. And they can. They can make a lifetime of work idleness. If no one purchases your craft, if no one will cooperate in the economy, then you will be poor. No matter how strong your craft is.

Thus, we come to the crux of Joy. Men must cooperate, and live at peace. There is true Joy. The artisan properly appraised, the food properly judged, the metal properly tested. And if it breaks, it goes to the one who didn't. If there is a master craftsman, he must eat. If he cannot, then what economy is this? The proud go and make their things, all for their purposes. Whose purposes?

Thus, why does it go on and on, and nothing ever happens? When men starve you, and they can, just for your liberty, they do it. And then there is no freedom, beside prosperity. Where is joy? It is in the one who follows best, and doesn't show themselves to be different. That is who is happy, until many become few, and few become one, who has any prosperity?

IV

Thus, here is the secret to Joy. Consider the decadence of Kings, with Diamonds for windows, the prisms pour onto the wood. Know there is greater riches than that, in the Kingdom above. One Acre of Heaven's Land, is far more valuable than all the Earth's treasures. For, it is golddust for dirt, and the pebbles are precious stones. The sedimentary layers of the crust are the finest gems. And there is no mantel: there is no fiery hell beneath it. It is all forgotten.

Thus, when you walk closest to the grave, when they wish to flay you, cook you, beat you, poison you, prick you, strangle you, burn you, publish all your secrets and let you rot... there is such a Love that comes from Heaven's fields. True acres of Diamonds.

There is a beauty there, that when held in your heart, will produce lasting peace. And there, if poor, and no man will see you on the wayside, you shall be happy. And your enemy will say, "Why? We have taken everything he has, and have destroyed it." And the wise shall say, "Oh, you fool. Had you not known, this world's goods were not my true treasures? I had a foundation of rock, which I built my house, and there is my joy. Not here. Here, you take all I have, or give me mansions and fine flesh and fine virgins, there is no more riches greater, than that of the Kingdom. I can live in endurance, and though you try me, I come out like Silver Purified Seven Times. Stamped for Purity, and a little impurity, to make me valuable for costly rings."

Thus, what is joy? Here is the secret: The Kingdom of Heaven is within you. There is your joy, and none can steal it from you. No not one. They can try, they can cause words to pour from your lips, they can do you great injustice, they can make you feel great pain and sorrow: They can make you rich, they can make you wealthy, they can make your heart filled with joy... there is the LORD and His treasure in your heart. They cannot steal that, if you have buried the pearl in the field, and hid it. They cannot find it, if they search. For the field is in your own soil, and you have taken the tares, and rocks, and highways out of it. And you have planted the mustard seed. And you have great love inside of you. That is where the truth resides. And none can steal that joy, if you sow it.

V

Walking through the woods, the Oak stood before me, and I realized, "The mountain moves by faith. Witchcraft is enchantments, potions, sleight of hand, and using strange science to cause a man to believe in falsity. Yet, consider, faith perceives as it actually is; thus, the mountain moves because it were never there." Thus, I reason, that we need God to establish our reality, for what do we have without Him? The witch must establish reality, or the warlock, or the demi-god, and we know they are not powerful enough. Yet, the light is in us, through the LORD Jehovah-Jireh Jesus Christ. Therefore, what man establishes as a god, dissipates, and is no more. No man can work, and no man can establish being. For, if being were part of our reality, and only as we perceived, then there would be no being, and we would always be correct about the outside world. Thus, we are truly underneath the LORD, or in captivity and beneath a devil. And the light shines, because we are pleasing to the LORD, and our light shines before them, and causes the sun to shine brighter. We need God to establish the geometry of the world around us, for if the geometry is made by our perception, then it is built upon a hollow hole, and we fall through it, into darkness, and are no more. That is hell.

Also, peace must be given by God. There is no peace apart from Him, and though we will it, there is only suffering. Mankind's philosophies are rooted in suffering and tragedy, and, thus, nobody flourishes. Yet, in the kingdoms of Christianity, there is the joyful child, looking up at her Grandfather, as he reads Martyr's mirror, her face beaming, and her pretty little face is at peace, and so is her grandfather, who looks like Socrates or Santa Claus. And there is the first lesson: We need God's peace to sustain us. We need the vine, as all other philosophies have attested, there is no peace found in their gods, or in their philosophies. No! Peace flows through Jehovah-Jireh, Jesus Christ! Why do people suffer? Why do the great sages of the East only see suffering? When the great sage of Jerusalem says that the Kingdom of Heaven is within us? Thus, peace flows through God, and not ourselves. For, no philosopher that I am aware of, has ever attained joy, but at the best madness or malaise. No, we need a Good Shepherd, we need a Rootstock, we need Life. The Peace of God is life, and love. It is longsuffering, and patience. It is meekness and humility. It is wisdom and life. It makes the righteous glad, though they suffer, and it causes the gloomy to realize there is a better hope somewhere yonder.

And lastly, how is there any knowledge of good or evil? Beauty or ugliness? How is there any knowledge of this, without Christ's body living it for us? Without the beauty of God's peace, how do we know? No, we cannot. It is like describing sight to a blind man. Thus, we need the LORD to know even a handbreadth of the Good, or to have all knowledge, we need Paraclete. We need to be aneled by Grace, and have it pour down over our beard. That is the deep spiritual truth. For, we perceive there is good and evil, we perceive there is beauty and ugliness, but the world around us says there is not. And it is contrary to our childlike being, to not know these natures exist in us and are apart from us. That eternal pleasure comes from Good, and eternal pain from Evil. Thus, we need Christ's Body, and Moses' Table, to know what to do. Without an example, we can neither know the good, for we need the Geometer to demonstrate his principles. And, thus, God come in the flesh does, living His life of poetry. There is still some frustration in a good man, there is still a longing for solitude, there is still a little kindle of wrath at injustice, there is still a little bit of looking down at those who have inferior ways. Yet, the Dog is fed the crumbs, and thereby, an entire world has access to the Kingdom and His promises. That little Dog, that we all are, except the 144,000 Jewish Virgins, are now extended grace. And thus, we know to extend mercy to those who are different than us. The Jew extends mercy to the Palestinian, the Palestinian to the Jew. Yet, in the wages of war, where there can be no peace, the city is waged war with, and the inhabitants are starved. And that is why we need to be counseled on right and wrong. For we know not the time or season without Him. 

Yet, consider, Satan... He comes clothed as righteousness. He tells you things, like "Be Empathetic; Do not War; it is a happier thing, to believe in nothing." And he comes, with his falsity, and his emenations, and he says, "Be your own god, found knowledge for yourself, test the spirits of the other faiths, and see... they have mousse too. They have flavor. There is wisdom there." And slowly, you find these ministers of light, or in the church even: he brings us to Paul, and says, "Now see, you are forgiven, so you can be whatever you choose. You don't have to do good deeds." And, thus, the foundations of morality fall apart, the very substance of being does with it... for no other God can establish, no other God can protect. And there is a peace for a little while, but the Serpent strangles her. And he constricts, and has venom. And constricts like a serpent, and envenomates with lust, bitterness, envy, malice, wrath, ingratitude, distrust. And those he envenomates you with, and then his body wraps around him, and squeezes, until the things of this world choke them. And then he is like a Howling Monkey, screaming loud, and telling you all your fears. Telling you to be frightened, and that you cannot be forgiven,---trying to elicit despair. He tells your secrets, spreads slander and gossip up and down the street, causes spies to enter into your house, and friends so called to be a mission against you. And they slowly feed you corruption, and drug you with your sin, and lust, and transgression, and then they poison you. And these are his ministers, as friends, apostles, prophets, wise men... and slowly you unwind, and your persecution is sore, so you let go of Christ. For you wish to be one with those you have become associates with, to blend in and take your things.



©2026 B. K. Neifert
All Rights Reserved

Common Activity

The Knight upon the board
Eyes the bishop.
Dark square bishop,
The Knight's L.
Warfare, white and black.
The priest preaches his homilies
Subtly reminding the King of why
He goes to war...
The Knight compassing him;
The Queen is a tyrant
Burning the pawns,
Thrusting them into combat.
En Passant, side swiped by the soldiers'
Blade, thrust forward,
The fortresses espied,
The king retreats to it.
My finger feels the glazed wood;
The smell of the woods from the box
Like pine. Warfare on an eight by eight
Board is acceptable to me.

Write From the Perspective of an Inanimate Object

Am I this Pinocchio doll,
With the shoe unglued,
Falling off my foot?
When will I become a real boy?
I sit on the shelf, and ponder:
I come from a collection of them;
Some large, some small.
My nose a wooden triangle---
Does it grow? I know not.
I wish I knew... for I am driven mad
By ignorance.

Write a Poem from the First and Last Line of a Poem

"My first thought was, he lied in every word,"
Said Childe Harold upon his exodus.
Down flew the warriors, the scorpions come!
The whole world heard the Trumpet sound.
There he was, and I am here, you are there,
You go around and round, and I remain idle.
I tried my best, but I saw him behest
And blew. "Childe Harold to the Dark Tower came."

Dialogue with Another Poem

Am I pinochio, or Childe Harold
Sitting upon the liar's chair...
Or am I valuable sitting here,
Or sitting there?
Am I crazy, or am I sound?
I know not, nor if I'm renown.
On and on we go,
The women talk of Michelangelo,---
Am I Prufrock, or am I Death,
Am I Smerdis, or am I a mess?
Or am I a humble poet wise
Who simply wrote his poesy wild?

Poem From the Future to the Future

"I know not what you do,
"Or who you are.
"Only that I regret you.
"I am poor,
"And filled with doubts.
"Why did you have to try to shout?
"I have painful silence in my breast:
"I lay in prison, and wish for death."

I say to you,
"My friend, if you are so cowardly,
"Suffer a little for your hourly
"Wage, which you have bought.
"You either don't give up, or have no love.
"Push a little further still,
"Fate is not real, and God may still heal."

Ten Words I Love

My Aegis is righteousness;
My mien is amorous love.
I need real freedom.
My friend is Jesus, and His forgiveness is good,

Word of the Day

Have---
Out of 1 million words
In the English Language,
This simple word
Was the one chosen by a random prompt.
Have---

I'll have you soon;
I hope.

Use Words that Have Opposite Meanings

Truncated is my expectations;
Enlarged is my desire.
Infinite are my loves;
Infinitesimal is my apathy.
Life is bitter;
Death is sweet.
War is peace;
Freedom is slavery.
Long live what is already dead.
American Aloha,
The 22nd Amendment allows a third term...
For Democracy Trumps a Constitution. 

©2026 B. K. Neifert
All Rights Reserved

There was once a quiet boy, who played with vacuum tubes
And swung them in his basement, making worlds.
He was very beautiful, with chestnut curls, 
And he made mistakes, yes, quite a few.
He once came upon Athena one day,
While carrying on his daily chores.
A writer he was, and a writer he'd be
Yet Athena wanted him lured
Into his van, of candy and treats
He came upon him one day.
Thus, Athena made a plan so grand
He chose not to make this boy elite.
Thus, the boy wrote his songs,
And wrote his stories for himself.
The people all saw it, now,
And thought, "Aww, for bloody hell."
Thus, they rioted and called him wrong
And cried out for his very songs.
They destroyed free speech, and burnt the moors
Petulant children all called him wrong.
He didn't know, save in his vision---
He just was poor, but with fruitful mind.
They called him the next Hitler,
But all he did was purge his mind.
Thus the people all waged war,
Two wars were fought for the law
That this man had it all...
But a poor boy he was, with fifteen dollars
He simply wrote his stories for himself.
So the people cried, and they wanted him found
They cried ever so loud.
They cried, and fought, and blood spilled through every valley.
"This boy shall not be a man,"
They cried out in pain, and thus they were well pleased.
All so this boy wouldn't write his odes
All so he wouldn't sell his stories,
Now let us understand.
Was he Hitler, or did he sing
For the freedom of his speech?
Was he concerned with what the world did
Was he even like a feral beast?
Or did he just quietly do his task
And learned what he could
Before it disappeared in ash,
Ash to ashes was the wood
Of every paper that printed ink
Thus all words were changed.
Was he really a bad man at all
Or was he really that insane?

Poison, is that writer's block. Bane, like the possumhaw.
Am I in a sort of hell?
Everything lucid disappears.
Everything is erased by time...
All strong words and letters are gone.
All is alienation.
Is the vine a poison grape to crush?
Yes, imagination still suffices.
There is still a thing, and a thing to say.

I can still write, though the sages are dulled...
Though history is forgotten.
Lady Jane Grey I know not,
Nor whether Elizabeth were in the Tower of London.
Boethius forgets about virtue
And every man is an island unto himself.
Herodotus forgets the reign of Nabonidus:
How Sin was placed on the altar over Samas
And this enraged the people, 
And caused Cyrus to be welcomed by them.
For they did not like that their virgins were to be temple prostitutes.
Where is it? Where did I read it? If not Herodotus? 
Why is Finnegan's Wake changed from gibberish to less gibberish? 
I do not know... is it some sort of torture?
Some sort of trick played on me and no one else?
Come, trains, yet the grape is crushed like they said...
Yet there is no joy.

Please help me, my God is not too far from me.
I cry out in the wilderness, and truth disappears.
It is all gone.
And there is no more fuel for the fire.
Yet I burn... a smoldering flax shall not be quenched
Nor a bruised reed shall break.
Kill the infant; dash them against the stone.
War is necessary I assume, to provide our true history.
That is my thought right now...
Where is the truth?
He is fallen in the street.
Thus, we still have free speech,
Let me kill the metaphorical infant, so I do not kill a real one.
Like our women are celebrating right this very moment in history
The death of three.
It makes me want blood to flow,
Yet I am appeased by it through the Bible's violence.
I kill it in my heart. There it dies,
And no violence proceeds from my hands.
Take away my history, my fantasy,
My dark meditations,
And I do not know...
I may become one of the mobs who burnt down Manhattan. 

©2026 B. K. Neifert
All Rights Reserved