Sallow silence... How can I not say "Black Lives Matter"? How can anyone say it? Yet, politically charged, The semantics of the group make it so That it is pure rhetoric. Black Lives Matter, So we must forfeit our fortune... Our aspirations... Our futures... Our freedoms... To even say this, I know, Puts me under their condemnation. Yet, I support the fact that Black Lives Matter. So much so, that I believe the organization could effect real change. I see its potential, To free me from my own bonds. But, it will not. Rather, it will take from me everything I've worked for. To fix the problems, Abolish criminal records. For it is not a race that is subjugated, But those of us who have sinned, And none will let us regain our footing. Many blacks live good lives, And it's because they hadn't gotten into trouble. Yet, a cop shouldn't harass a black man. A man should be judged on the content of his character. There is a certain mien to a bad man That on black or white, It can be seen, And it can be understood that such a man is bad. Perhaps it is misfortune that brings that mien, But it is a universal fact. Judge the content of character, A lot of character traits can be known at first glance. It can be known, So to purge the known, Purge the criminal records. Yet, don't abolish the people who protect us.
Tag: Poetry
The Three Buzz Words
Postmodernism is just Premodernism. Absent of God, it is just the self which dictates truth. The self becomes a god, And the predilections of teenage angst Become adult philosophies. The Modernist, they say, Is concerned with rational ways of being. The Postmodernist is concerned with one's own being. The Premodernist is concerned with being. The postmodernist is just a religious zealot of the self. The modernist is a man who believes heroes ought to be The average man, and that average men make good literary subjects. The Premodernist, he is concerned with heroes, With magic, with systems of divine truth. Which of these kinds of men are right? Solomon said all three have merit, Yet I find myself holding to two of the traditions;--- For there are only two. There is the Premodern, who believes what is outside of him Is defined by God. The Postmodernist just goes one step further And believes themselves to be God. The Modernist, he believes truth can be found In reason, and the study of the outside world. At some point, an ontological question gets asked, "Is there any outside world to begin with?" The Modernist doesn't speculate on such issus. The Premodernist doesn't either. The Postmodernist, however. wonders so very much whether solipsism were true. The Premodernist man, he tells the tales of heroes. The Modernist man, he tells the tales of average men. The Postmodernist man, he doesn't believe in tales of any kind. The prophets speak in similitudes The scientists speak in data The lunatics speak in self-aggrandizement. A religious man is concerned with the well being of others. A secular man is concerned with the well being of the state. A lunatic man is concerned with the well being of himself. A good man is concerned with treating others the way one would want to be treated. A civil man is concerned with treating others the way society has constructed with their laws. A lunatic man is concerned with how others treat himself. A saint is concerned with soothing heartache. A businessman is concerned with soothing poverty. A demon is concerned with soothing himself. A righteous man is concerned with being good. A worldly man is concerned with being rich. A stupid man is concerned with being himself. A meek man is concerned with charity. A strong man is concerned with his strength. A weak man is concerned with how he appears to others.
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Why I Know God Exists
There is love. Though I'm angry and bitter, Though I am undeserving, Though wrath swells in my soul While I write this... Yes, I am angry at God. But, God exists. Job was angered at God. It wasn't a sin. As he sat sore covered, His entire family killed. His house ruined, And only the nagging wife... Job was furious Asking God why he must suffer. Those paragraphs in between the main chapters Some people say, "Why would they be written?" It is because many people have never suffered for doing right. Immediately, everyone believes suffering is for bad men. I've seen more worthy homeless men In my life, than I've seen worthy rich men. I've seen better people on the street, And poor, than I've seen in business suits. That is why I know God exists. Something sweet has to exist for these people. Some sweetness, some goodness, Has to exist. For man is given dominion over the Earth. We, men, are the ones who rule this Earth, With very little intervention by God. God does not intervene often, For "6“What is mankind that you are mindful of them, a son of man that you care for him? 7 You made them a little[a] lower than the angels; you crowned them with glory and honor 8 and put everything under their feet.” Men are given authority over the earth, Because God subjected the Earth to man's domain. It is why miracles seldom come. It is why good is often made so low And the righteous are brought low. The pastor preaches posperity, And it is enough to make me lose my faith. Christ said nothing of prosperity. Man gives and bestows prosperity, And man takes it away. For the poor man languishing in his heartache, God will give him meat like the fowls of heaven, But, God will not enrich a man. Hard work enriches a man, And sometimes hard work ends in failure. For, there are men who preside over my prosperity And it is "Line upon line, "Here a little, there a little," Who steal from me burdens of wheat. I see no hope, for I am languishing in my failure And I see no way out. For I haven't sinned to place myself in these bonds. I had, as it were, told the truth. And for the truth, Satan defies it. By giving a little prosperity to wicked men Just enough to eat at their hearts, And destroy them when the trap comes. As for me, Satan holds me down like a fettered Prisoner, and man takes the key, and locks it. God, God could stop it. But, he will only stop it when He pleases. And right now he does not please to do it. For I am languishing, but am well fed. I am sorrowful, but am filled with more good than many men. There is a level at which I am at. I can either turn bitter that my desires were frustrated. Or, I can prophesy doom that never comes, And never see the broken glass of warfare. For if I speak it, Satan is obstinate to make me a liar. So, as a liar, I spoke the truth, for Satan wishes to carry forth his plan. By my voice, I rebuke princes and principalities. By my voice. I am growing bitter for nothing good seems to come to me. I am broken in an instant. I am carried forth into shame and obscurity. Yet, I know God exists, and He is good. Because it is not God's domain, this earth. It is our domain. And man makes man rich And man makes man poor. And devils corrupt the rich To throw insults at the poor. For I am poor in spirit, Though I am bitter to my roots. I am bitter because my spirit is failing. LORD, when will the threshing end?
Love’s Funny
My foreboding turns into delusion As I told him he needed to be better. I feel like the Asian mom haranguing The child because they aren't quite at the level. Of course, he goes, and instantly gets accepted. Oblivious to the fact that I am right. I don't say these things to upset him, Only to make him better. Yet, maybe my pleonastic prose are his sour notes. Maybe my long first paragraphs are his tawdry bends. Maybe my attempt at Pentameter is his sweet picking Or, perhaps, he is just better than me at everything. His professors laude his writing skills; All I see is that it needs work. He plays his guitar well, But then must play fast, And when he does, various inarticulate notes creep in, But perhaps I am the only one that hears them. He beats me at chess, a game I've studied. He beats me without studying it. However, I have been quite dull these days With my mind flattened by the stress. Maybe I am just mediocre. Maybe... But, I tell him my folksy wisdom To choose his notes. And he succeeds, and I fail. As he takes a test online for his class, I say a silent prayer, "Don't let him fail." Because my failure is enough to break me. No door opens, my poems don't make it to the search page. What's more frustrating, is that everything I do Is hedged in, and I cannot break free of it. I see him skipping over fences. I ask myself why this is? It's not jealousy; It's just watching someone else succeed While I languish in the pit I have dug for myself. I speak, and it doesn't come true. All the better if it doesn't. Yet I can't help but speak... I try to well up the words. But they come out. And I suffer for it, Facing a wall of poverty. Is it because I cannot trust in God? Why would I trust in God? God doesn't open doors for me. Though I love him, I feel like a caged pig, A worthless, slovenly animal Trapped in a cage; But love is funny. Any sense of true anger Turns into thankfulness that my brother doesn't have to suffer this. I am thankful that it's him suffering nothing, And I suffer. But, at some point, The suffering needs to end So I do not become a bitter man. For love is funny, In that I can be happy for my brother Yet, for myself, I will be unloving to all around me because my life is bitter And all my joys are turned to darkness.
Hedonism
Hedonism, Hedonism, O, thy wreath of fame. Vomitoriums no longer, For men... they say... do not display. Callously, the atheist chomps To win the never ending debate. His Reason is his tool, His tool is his gate. For love, he says, is more beautiful as a chemical. Morality, more beautiful without a law. Science can reason our goodness. Archaeology why Satan did not fall. To this dark omen, A chemical can one day cease. A world without a Law, would be violence in the streets. Animals do, yes they do, commit every terrible crime. Archaeology, they say, shows why men are not divined. For the evidence proves, That men are like the beasts. And Noah's flood is immoral, Yet this forecast is quite bleak. For at the end of times, What is beautiful cannot sway. For beauty is just a chemical Like a photosynthesized ray. Does not the truth put sway upon our hearts? Do not the stars, impart a certain charm, And geometry lighten the more one does chart? Is not love a good thing And is not the chemical inspired by the truth? Not the feeling is the truth, But the liquor of it true? For feelings do not say, What is good or so very dark. But, rather, they are gifts given by God To help us know when a thing's a farce. A good heart tests the liquors, A good heart tastes all the wines. And when an inebriation becomes hollow Idolatry is the kind Of drunkenness, worshiped above our God. For feelings do not make true, But truth does feelings impart. Yet, when the heart is bad And cannot draw a sympathetic string When kindness does not etch Into the hearts of man and king... When instead, the heart is dull The feelings unfelt. When another man's feelings One cannot tell. Then, I say, corrupt it has to be. Yet even more so than that Is saying God is but a fleet Of feelings, and wrong assumptions made. For it is indeed Christ Who brings peace to all hearts this way. Yet, Hedonism, The ode upon my lyre, Dulls all good feelings And dampens a holy fire. For the liquors come, And tamper down the flames. It dulls the heart The heart it breaks. For all sympathy is broken, The heart is so unkind Who hedonism has broken Who hedonism has maligned.
Freedom of Speech
It's gone. The corporation can take it from you By simply lolling you to sleep. Withdraw the hand that feeds And one cannot eat. Extort, so that the only way to earn bread Is to obey the companies that tell you. 14,000,000 people were killed in the Holocaust. 20,000,000 people were killed in Stalin's Holocaust. 100,000,000 people were killed in Mao's Holocaust. Children die in war. When we dropped our bombs, did it only kill men? Men with helmets? No, women, children, they died too When we bombed Germany. Ask any soldier how to win an occupation? Kill down to the last child. If God said to do it once, Once in all of history. Then consider the cannibals that they murdered. Slavery is a punishment inflicted on a nation. When that nation ritualistically cannibalizes its infants When that nation sodomizes its child prostitutes When that society sacrifices little children I think putting them to work is a mitigated sentence. God does, in fact, destroy. He will bring plauges. And those plagues comfort me. What else is to be done to a nation of murderers Who smear Fetus over their skin To stay healthy? Who barter the blood of infants For their products? Why is what is about to happen will happen? Because there is no right and wrong To this generation. Murder is good, if it's in the name of Anarchy and violence. But, God's war is far too viscous. The Crusades were defensive wars, To protect against invaders. Ask any Muslim whether it is justified to defend your territory At a cost of human life. Americans piously drop bombs in Iraq And burst women and children's flesh Yet it is only unethical if it's a sword. Let the children wander in their war zones... Because that's right. YouTube is censoring this information. It's the cold hard truths. War, the more violent side wins. That's why we don't fight them. That's why there are nation states Which give bounds, so remove not the ancient boundaries. What is wicked is waging war with kids gloves So an entire continent suffers. What is immoral is marching armies With the thought that war can be fought reserved... Meanwhile, children lose everything, and get indoctrinated. Ask any soldier about those verses in the Bible That talk about war. Those who have killed a child, for in war everything is justified. That is why one ought not fight it. War is wicked, because believe in the Bible And it makes war the most wicked thing in the world. That is why God is moral. Because He doesn't make war glorious. He doesn't make war anything but what it is... Supreme evil. And with that, it is why the Law of War brings me comfort That it ought not be fought in our day and age. And all of this is censored on Your Television.
The Realized Philosopher
When every idea is mastered... The art of subtlety commenced into the ephemera of time... A fruitful mind will, no shall know... That only the fruitful can agree. Only the artist can understand The peering question. A snap crackle and pop for the inquisitor, But, the artist shall know. When every idea is mastered, The master then becomes the teacher. The joy of instilling the past Of passing down a tradition To the next generation of young minds. The philosopher spent his journey learning what is Wisdome... when he came to his own wisdom It was simply chaff. The eccentricities of bitter wars, Of conflicts, diseases of the mind. Upon the still of reason The refinery of our liquor, The wine of our words Became infused with the mastery over the subject. So that all was under the philosopher's domain. Thus, upon his rood of wisdom, He had only one thing left to do.
In an Age of Censorship
In an age of censorship My heart yearns with rage To say my words. My heart burns, my words spew. "It is good." Our cities burn. Our cities burn you fools. As the genocides of Hitler become censored. Hitler's genocide, his atrocities, Are censored on Your Television. Men with breasts march with the swastika of their Venom, women with cropped hair and dyes Threaten the police. O' Napoleon, will your grapeshot put them in line? Will the Bastille fall? Will the guard's heads be paraded on pikes? O' Robespierre, will you guillotine the clergy? The Femfascists are among us... Black leotards, fishnet, hair dye And silicon breasts. They march with their rifles... The fruitless revolution To place on the throne The Cult of the Supreme Being The Cult of Reason... Will science spill the blood of all kaffirs?
If There’s One Thing that Ought Be Left Amoral
If there's one thing that ought be left amoral It ought to be science. That is to say, Racism, Religious Discrimination, Ethnic Cleansing Homosexuality, Serial killing, Pedophilia, Hedonism, The Lobster's Capitalism And Abortion Are a few things Science is starting to poke and prod At, as if they were moral things in of themselves. What we should understand is that we are men; Not an animal. For, science categorizes us with the Fauna, But our consciences say otherwise.
A Lament for Poets; 2016
The poor old woman lifted up her voice again,
“The fowler had taken all the blackbirds away—
“They all were gone, and I knew not to where.
“I looked for them; truly I did.
“There was one I saw several decades ago
“But he had flown far away; the Skylarks
“Such pretty voice, yet also very common,
“Now warble their tunes from time to time—
“But, as I had sung about the blackbirds—
“Not the Jacobites,—When my crown was lost,
“There had recently appeared at my door
“A thrush, who though not as pretty a song as the skylark
“Had the dignity and pearly sheen of feathers I like.
“My heart was refreshed by seeing him,
“Though I had wished I would see more,”
Said the poor old woman, knitting upon the hills.
B. K. Neifert 