The Man in Black

There was a man in black

Who sung of Gabriel’s Trumpet;—

A prophet he was, who sung sad odes

Of those about to die.

 

Some elves peeped through the walls

Spying the songs he’d sing.

He sung his sad odes

But the elves, having power over time

Went back and sung them

First.

 

Then Albion’s Queen saw this thing;—

 

When times are tricked,

She investigates the matter.

 

She found the man innocent,

And therefore, let him sing his sad odes.

For, none could understand his odes

When the elves sung them.

They needed the man in black

To understand.

Idea Theft: It’s Called Art

A thought crossed my mind today about Plagiarism.

Suppose a Russian author stole my best book.

Then, he gave it to Reddit.Com to eviscerate.

Then the trolls eviscerated it,

Making it incomprehensibly different

To my masterwork.

Would he have really stolen my idea

If it’s totally different?

Sure, there might be zombies

Underground tunnels and people living inside of Subway stations

But, truthfully, nothing is the same.

Is it truly plagiarism

Or is it high art?

 

Michelangelo sculpted sculptures

Of the Greek molds and casts

Making reproductions at first

Which were in similitude with their

Original art.

With a novel, you cannot do this.

Rather, elements or ideas get borrowed from one author

To another, and then get shared

Passing down ideas from one person to the next.

It’s a lot like sculpting.

Yet, I have a hunch someone scalped my one manuscript

And wrote a few famous novels.

I’ve looked at them,

Seeing them all over the place.

They are not my stories.

Just some of my ideas

Which I ought not own.

Surely, I write myths about Robin Hood

And Beowulf, stories which are shared.

I write stories about Iranian myths

I’ve never seen my words in print.

It’s always someone else’s story

Which borrowed my ideas

To make theirs.

How they get it?

Who knows… but it’s not my story.

 

Where we confront problems

Is when I cannot publish my story

Because of them.

When I cannot have my words in print

And be read, because they plagiarized me.

All I care about are my words,

And my stories.

I copy Robin Hood and Medea

I copy some elements of Vampires and Werewolfs.

And I make my own stories with them.

It’s called High Art…

 

My story is not in Russia,

It is not in their Subway Stations,

It has really nothing to do with a famous author

I was enlightened to today.

My story is not in a Maze,

My story is not about men shrinking

To have lots of money…

Though each of these

Have borrowed something of mine…

Should it be copyrighted?

Maybe they came about independently

Because maybe archetypes exist.

Maybe notions produce art.

Or, maybe someone copied my manuscripts

And went to Reddit.com

And changed them.

Regardless, it’s not my story.

I’m flattered someone would make their own

So long as it’s not Capitol City

Or my Freelander Civilization;

So long as the themes are not American

And the love story is about Marc and Erin.

 

Surely, I don’t care about a wood carved bear

Because my story has nothing to do with a maze,

Though it is a metaphor about hell.

I did think about shrinking men who wanted to enrich themselves

With shrinking, namely, that’s why they have Galaxy Rings

In Fairyland.

But, it’s not my story.

 

Stories need shared,

And that’s why I love Japan

With tons of Gundam Animes

All by different producers.

Just, the guy who made Gundams should make some money

On it too. That’s all I’m saying;

People ought to read a work if it’s quality.

 

But, they don’t. And a Copyright system

Isn’t going to fix that.

Really, human corruption has been around for a long time

And intellectual property is airy.

An invention of a log splitter,

If the man who was the genius behind it

Didn’t get paid,

But some other thief did

I call that corruption.

If both men got paid,

But one made a Ford

And the other a Chevy,

And the other a Honda

And the other a KIA

I call that capitalism.

So long as men can eat from their labors

Which they do under the sun.

 

Just don’t steal my Ethos

And we’ll be fine.

Don’t steal my Pathos

And we’ll be fine.

Don’t steal my Logos

And we’ll be fine.

Let Kairos be damned

It’s Because of him

I’m poor.

A True and False Prophet

There was a prophet whom everyone said was crazy.

Every prediction he said, so said the people

He had gotten wrong.

He even once said that the heavens would pour down fire

If the peoples did not repent of their actions.

Haughtily, the world looked,

And no fire rained from the heavens.

 

There was another prophet whom everyone said was in his right mind.

Every prediction he said, so said the peoples

He got right.

He even said that fire ought to fall down from the sky

For it would be good for the peoples if it did rain fire.

Haughtily, the world looked

And then desired with their whole hearts for fire to rain down from the heavens

Like Sodom’s Brimstone

For they enlarged their stubborn hearts as if they were gods.

 

The first prophet was visited by brethren

Of the Church of Christ, to spy whether he was mad

Or truly a prophet. They saw him

And not much greatness was perceived in him

For every proclamation he made was wrong.

Yet, when he spake, the children of God trembled

For fear of God’s wrath.

 

The second prophet was visited by the same brethren

Of the Church of Christ, to spy whether he were a prophet

For they neither considered him mad, nor a false prophet.

They saw much greatness in him

Enough to bring down fire from the heavens.

Every prediction he made came true.

Yet, when he spake, the children of God became haughty of heart

Desiring in their hearts to become gods.

 

Which prophet, do you suppose

Had done the will of God?

The one who spoke, and all men trembled

Though not one word of his came true?

Or the prophet whom everyone adored

Because he could tell fortunes,

And make their hearts haughty because of mammon?

 

Yet, Christ said this: “I give this generation only the sign of Jonah,”

Whom Jonah set three days in the belly of a whale

Before going to Nineveh because he considered he’d be made a fool

When his words would not come true.

And surely, his words did not come true

Because God was merciful to Nineveh.

Woe to that people whose prophet’s words come true

If the prophet’s words are to turn the peoples off of the narrow path.

For the peoples adore great spectacles, but cannot tolerate a poor man

Whom the whole world despises because of the inconvenience of what he says.

Yet, blessed be that prophet who speaks a word,

And it does not come true

If it is spoken to warn the peoples of bitter trials ahead.

For a prophet ought not seek destruction,

But rather to preserve the life of his peoples.

And a prophet’s fear

Is to gladly be made a fool for his prophecy.

The Modern Monkey King

He held no real title.

He turned over a new leaf.

He went from being the most evil

To a righteous son at least.

 

Now I perceive the tale

And realize something true:

The Hero is now the villain

While the Villain has turned good.

 

The Titular Prince—

I am quite impressed with

How the Gospel is here so shown—

Not that a sermon can be preached on it

But it shows how bad men can really grow.

 

For the Prince had taken his warships

And so destroyed many moons;

While the hero, that good man

Had defeated him to prove.

The prince had stolen many lives

Many trillions, it is true.

But, the good man’s good

Turned him to here prove

His strength in battles crude.

 

His goodness had corrupted him

For evil he nare understood.

Thus, his pure heart nearly destroyed him

And his whole entire troop.

 

The prince, with family, with lover and child

Saw this righteous man so careless

Gambit his whole world for vile

Tests against a stronger foe.

For the righteous man

With no sin, had only wanted to test

His strength in battle; in battle lust

He went to beat his many foe.

 

Yet the prince, who tasted great evil—

Now slowly turned to good—

Knew that this was wasteful,

For at war’s outbreak would

The righteous man now see

He wanted to test his strength of army

But nearly plunged his nation to the sea.

 

Finally, the good man,

Believing himself pure

Turned himself to a Baalim

So truthfully sure

Of his own good deeds.

 

The wicked man, who tasted evil

Knew how wicked he

Our hero became.

A titular prince is just a pauper,

So he spent it with his family.

 

Thus is the message

Of the gospel of hope.

Great good which never knew evil

Will in the darkness grope.

For a heart that does not wise

Know that they are bad

Will in the end be callous

And also be God’s foe.

Save Your Servant Israel

LORD, to where do I turn?

LORD, to where do I turn?

Do I turn to the north?

Will my help come from there?

Do I turn to the south?

Do I turn to the king?

Do I turn to the earth?

What is underneath the earth?

 

From where does my help come?

Idols do not set before my eyes

I have heard your voice

Idols do not set before my eyes

And I, LORD, I am a listener ready to listen

I am a sheep ready to be set down

In the pasture.

Where does my help come?

Surely all other gods are wolves

Ready to steal

And destroy.

Surely all other gods deceive

And surely they say, “Do some little bit of evil

“So that your will comes to pass.

“Love your life so much

“That you will do this little evil

“And your desire shall surely shine forth like the morning star.”

 

Yet, LORD, if there is error in my heart

If in my way are stumbling-blocks

Surely You shall remove them.

Why do I, LORD, why do I excel above other men?

Am I something which men look to and say

“This man is my example.”

Surely not, LORD, for You are the example

You are the path set before our feet.

If all else follow after vain idols

I shall surely stay steadfast in Your love.

For where does my heart lean?

If there is a company against me

I shall call upon you early

I shall, before the war

Constantly speak into your ear.

 

Who are the men who trouble the meek?

Who are those who cause trouble for your servant Israel?

Surely they shall be set forth ablaze

And shall burn for eternity in hell.

Yet, I, I shall listen and wait upon You.

For my salvation is like a wellspring

And my heart a steadfast servant.

Though the company does not believe my words

Though they say, “He lies, there is nothing good in him,”

Though they wait for my feet to stumble

And though they make a diligent watch for sin

LORD return upon their own heads their mischief.

For dreams they accuse Your servant

While they walk forth in slander and murder all the day long.

How long shall the wicked prosper?

Surely you shall not let your servant see decay.