Why did you threaten to sue the New York Times? Are you for Freedom of Speech? Or against it? Why don't you sue YouTube for shaving your video views Or do something constructive like that? Now, you're setting the precedent for abridgments of speech Through frivolous lawsuits. Your brand is worthless if you don't uphold the citizen's right to criticize. That, my dear friends, is called hypocrisy.
Tag: Poem
The Cure
Bodily illnesses need a physician. Spiritual illnesses need a priest. Mental illnesses need a sage. If one breaks an arm, one must let it heal In a cast, and rest it for may days. If one is consumed by bitterness Or flashes of uncontrollable lust, One must rest from the source of the bitterness or lust. If deluded, or depressed one must rest, To allow the ancient wisdom of accountability to soothe their soul. Sages have found in all mental strife An error of judgment, be it one's perception about life Or one's desire, unmet. Good men often suffer; Bad men often feel no pain. Yet, to heal from mental illness, the Sage tells the opposite Of a Therapist. He does not say become more worldly But, rather, one must forsake the world And learn to have peace. Not to embrace suffering and reach nirvana. Not to say suffering is life's chief end. Rather, feast at the appointed time, Fast at the appointed time, Make love at the appointed time, And shun embracing at the appointed time. The mental woes of our modern age Are guilt and shame. All have guilt; all have shame; Therefore, it makes deluded and depressed minds. At the end of the burden comes numbness. Rather, the Sage Philosopher teaches To become more sane by loving those around oneself. To love those who one sees To accept that love is going to wound More profoundly than enemies. To accept this fact, and understand That we ourselves have wounded many, too. The modern sickness is of the soul; It comes from a sickness in society: Men must be selfish in order to eat; Men must accept they cause other's starvation; They compete and burden others with their status. For all men to eat, it would take a righteous confluence Of one's own soul with the souls of others. To truly unburden the self of suffering Requires one to escape from the self And merge one's identity with others, Merge identity with God, family and friends. Yet, the mental sickness encountered today Is the succoring of the self And the abandonment of spiritual things And the abandonment of love.
Veritable Divinity
The Pharisee would walk the streets with his hands Over his eyes, in order to avoid the sight Of a beautiful woman or a sinful idol, Which would catch an ever wandering eye. Confucius said suffer a woman to drown Rather than take her by the hand to save her. For tradition to these men was the way to cleanse souls. Was Confucius a Pharisee, probably. However, good, he had concluded, Is self evidently so; and good must Be part of one's daily habit. For tradition Finds its root in ancient established laws. For he saw that goodness established customs And then those customs would be later core To the felicity of human government. Just like Moses' law established justice So did the law Confucius base his judgments On establish. For, good is good by the sake Of its being inherently good. 'tis A tautology, sufficient in itself; For reason cannot exist without tautology Or self evident truth; thus, Confucius based His philosophy on self evident truths That man needs to love and so order his Respect with those filial bonds which are formed For the sake of human happiness. Yet, like all men with an ideology He and the Pharisees forgot the exceptions To the rules established; that if a rule Contradicted the course of humanity's love It was to be rejected; and this is why Christ Is preeminently divine, that though Confucius saw the Legalists as fools He invariably was one. And Christ is not.
A Father’s Day Poem
’A Father’s Day Poem Through the glean of ocean sprays Lights shed upon th’ valleys lay A world of right and wrong. Upon that world there is a crown For ones who know wh’ is renown A love wrought for a song. Love knows no treasure great or small That is wrought by men’s many laws F’ whose distant cities long. Cities lay upon a hill Cast by ocean mists be still White rains to look upon For emerald sheaths and spires Raise to rye ruby towers Yet to us t’is a fog. Long the fellows wait for more The ocean’s breath, distant shores Awaitings ne’er be wrong. For God ‘as giv’n a life And you time to see the light Of ‘t prospers of thy sons. Happy Father’s Day Neifert, B. K.. My Collected Writings. Kindle Direct, 2017. ©2017 B. K. Neifert All Rights Reserved
The Blue Moon
We carry the torch of wisdom Over the ample seas And through the mountainous valleys Into the bastioned cities. We are a society of men Who carry firsthand knowledge Of the cross. Looking into the heavens We see the evidence for our God. We dare not say the whole truth For who should ever believe? But rather, we men, leave fragments Of the truth across the many seas. For good is an agency of God And evil what's ugly to man; We see in all things the evidence Which flow from time's shifting sands. We are small, we are strong, We can make the mountains move. With our prayers we heal the blind And with our words we prove God true. We have encountered Him In many of our prayers. We are the men who have knowledge So sons of man Beware.
The Triumph of Meat
The triumph of meat, that freedom is true, And far more precious than a thousand laws. Together, with friendship, the joy of the hunt Beams on their faces, and when asked They say, "We believe our ancestors "When they die, go up with the Son." Pure freedom, joy, and ecstasy is on their faces Knowing that the Baboon's meat is everything. The philosophical depths stop at life's necessities. What's most important is "Meat". A simple answer like a Child were giving it. The little civilization forages through the forests And the veldts, searching the ranges for food. All life is a search for the bare necessities. Their civilization is more ancient than Babylon. They are happier than any German. They are far more alive than any Spaniard. They are far more wise than any Chinaman. What the tsetse prevents them from obtaining Is found among the fruits of foraging.
The Changelings
At the local McDonald's, was a masterpiece Written, and the Coca-Cola was plenteous. Sweet was the verse, and sweet was the brine, so smooth. At the counter were those busied by their work; And I felt camaraderie with them while the words flowed From my pen into the notebook. See, Death Was on my mind, that androgynous changeling, And it was out to procure its galactic conquest. With a urine, feces, blood and black flag It banned the cosmos under its reign of tyranny; Shedding law, love and decency. I drank my Coca-Cola, plenteous And freely flowing, on the television I saw it Tearing down statues and making racist laws. "Cyrus had died, so Darius must reign," I thought--- That and all the beauty made by the white race. Why Colonialism is wrong, I can't understand. Yet I have my sympathies with the Tribal life; I see just as much beauty in that way of life. In China, Mencius said, "Let the farmer do his work, for he knows "The time and seasons to put forth the plough." And I Look at China, seeing it turned grey by German Philosophy. Its tradition was to let the worker do what they know. Yet, at that McDonald's I saw all shades of skin Working for a common purpose. There's noble Truths in all three races' wisdom. Yet, Communism is a white man's philosophy. More White than the capitalism we use now. Just some food for thought to all of our Woke comrades.
Uncle L_______
When I was a kid, One of my first memories was You holding a piece of fat And eating it. I laughed, as you made funny munching noises Because I said didn't like it. But you told me it was the best part So I ate some, and liked it. You were like sunshine. That is what your name means. Long ago, I read it. I miss the days as they used to be. My family. Now it's like everything is dim. I miss you I miss my cousins I miss the family I used to have Where I felt accepted. Please forgive me for any wrong I've done. My life is bitter. But I remember a time when it was sweet. I would like it to be sweet once again.
Writer’s Block
Writer's block, how you come to me once again.--- Staring at this white sheath in front of me, I succor the demons when I consent to you. For when my hand forgets his discipline, I am Like Keats was while watching the Nightingale. Then I fly like the bird when my thoughts are free, For the joy is like the Cicada's Chirping In the forest with its gay little life. It fills me to the brim with ecstasy. A disciplined writer finds their music In all of life's events. Being prayed for in the wilderness For seeing Satan's false signs, The vertigo swirls through a life satisfied By small events giving succor for a poem or two. So, I fight to stay the writer's block away. For in the forest, I am frightened by all prospects. By poverty, but riches, by stagnation, but progression. My heart is heavy within me, ready to burst For the songs I've sung are lonely and none have ears. I wonder about the Nightingale, How something so small brings inspiration for a masterful poem. I realize writer's block is not allowing oneself to see The connections, yet it is true that none really want to see them. So, I sorrowfully sing my songs in silence--- The signs from Satan are too numerous for me to ignore. The world does not want a master poet. What it wants is simply to be the Nightingale. Yet, by being so, there is no nectar left to drink For it was all spoiled on honey But none were bees. For all have drunken up the fun And left nothing. Thus, writer's block becomes the natural order of the world; For if the fun has all dried up And the flowers all sucked dry And the bees hadn't made the honey Which gives them their joy for drinking nectar; Sweet the nectar is, and it is a good occupation Where sweet is always in the mouth. Yet, the labors of our modern age Make life bitter, for the Songs are not loved Thus, the cycle of drinking and making Is over. With that, I close my eyes and sleep.
I Love this Country
I love this country. I have food. I have drink. I have freedom I have shelter. I have work. The poor are rich. Everyone has an equal chance. There's green trees. There's wild flowers. There's cicadas. There's daddy Longlegs. There's blue birds. There's robins. There's beaches, amusement parks and ski resorts. There's national parks. I can criticize my country. I can speak whatever nonsense I please. I can be wrong. I can also be right I can research any subject under the sun. Black Lives Matter, Antifa You're so stupid if you can't see This is the best country to ever live.
B. K. Neifert 