Tag: Poetry

The Slave

Once there was a boy who fell into

Depths of peril; renowned was he

‘mong the rising fortunes of bliss’

Wagon wars. He foresaw futures

Grim; he fell by all.

Ev’ry tongue was wagged against him

When none could know his inner thought.

All were joyed by sin’s epistle

All were to him like a thorn.

 

Who knows the boy so close to age

That men did scorn and sell their hate.

At once they made him sign in blood—

His life’s to God the Father and Son—

He made no vow, but was renown

To be the villainous world’s clown.

Thus all did hate and scorn and preen

They wished to burn him, kill him, scream

At what he did, was worst of all…

Yet worst he did was give his life to Law.

For now all men do hate him so

Who found the one and Holy Ghost.

 

Wrote Trochees, called them Iambs—

All called that man dumb.

 

I see men who all sank in the bog.

A silly thing to watch, this salt bog

Desperate to find all of his faults.

For into the salt bog the men sank

When they wagged their hot tongue.

All men shot their split tongue

Like the Asp’s double pronged fork.

 

Think on this, thou friendly foes

Of what cost it did bring. When men

Turned a head South of his Slavehood.

Ever have laws remissed him?

Why say he’s lawless, then?

Coca-Cola

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

πd=C—

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

Beautiful.

 

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.

Covid-19

Why I’m not mad at God

Is because it’s people who did this.

 

We want to believe we can be sinners

Without repercussion.

George Soros will stand to make a killing off this plague

Along with every other billionaire.

The stock markets will be tanked,

And billionaires will buy up all of the cheap shares.

Then, more will fall under their control.

They will make lots of money.

 

Say there really is a body piling up plague

That needs mass graves.

I highly doubt it, but let’s pretend like it’s so.

Then what?

Billionaires will still profit off of it.

The government will be destroyed as we know it

For into eternity, everyone will be traumatized

By it, and will never be able to allow themselves to get close to another human being

Again.

 

Which is why we deserve what’s happened.

During the Spanish Flu,

During the Black Plague

People got over it.

Yes, many people died,

But what do I have to fear?

I’m more afraid of my government pulling this trick

At every swine flu,

Every SARS outbreak,

Onto eternity,

With my grandmother stuck in a nursing home with no help

My brother laid off of work and down a couple thousand dollars of loan money

Which he spent to get his education.

 

Frankly, I’m disappointed in the whole thing,

And hope to God that if this is real

I fall on my face and die soon.

Because the political ramifications are going to echo on for a long time

As everyone will live in their little conceited bubble

Of worlds with sterilized drones

Flying in packages from Amazon

On Elon Musk’s rocket ships.

Then, everyone will be afraid to go outside

To talk to one another…

They call it “Social Distancing” right now.

To be honest, I hope I die,

And if I don’t, I will do everything I can to get infected with this disease

Living my life like it weren’t even around.

The reason why is that a world where this becomes normal

Is a world I do not want to live in.

The American Leprechaun

Those Leprechaun’s in Ireland were old cobblers,

But the ones in America old shrews.

A Leprechaun in Ireland worked all his days;

Why, the American one worked few.

 

Not did the Leprechauns in America

Tap or tick the shoe,—

Neither did they write, make clocks or sweep chimneys, too.

No, rather, they horded up all their gold

And set their gold at the edge of a rainbow.

 

It would never grow big or small,

As a men would chase it—

Such was the Leprechaun’s law

That whoever found the treasure could have it.

 

The Leprechauns spent all day making gold with usury

Laying up their treasures in the banks;—

Where they’d collect dust and stank.

 

So, the Leprechauns in Ireland made a pact;

 

One day, there came a rainbow over the hills

Quite majestic, it laid three bows above the head.

A man named Phineaus found it,

And laid mighty still, to see if

The rainbow would stay its breadth—

Never thought he’d be a rich man instead.

 

The Rainbow grew

Over ol’ Phineaus’ head;

Rainbows, did, somewhere on the earth lay,

Now he would have his daily bread.

 

Phineaus, as he walked

Grew ever more doubtful of what he should find,

Until at the end of the rainbow,

One, two, three bows high

He did walk into the Leprechaun’s mine.

 

Amazed, there were treasures in that trap

Enough for a dragon’s den.

Phineaus marked the way on a map—

For the magic of the rainbow endtd—

Thus, set the map back, and took his pocket full of gold.

He sought to make rich the townsfolk

Who were blackened with poor, both young and old.

 

It came to be that the mine was dug

Every gold piece was stolen to the shilling.

When the Leprechauns of America came by

They realized they had just made a killing—

They heaped up a crevice of gold—

But when found their stash

Had been plundered by the town of Caberdash

Those Leprechaun’s now should know…

 

Thus, the day toiled, the Leprechauns were white

They saw all their gold stolen on one sleepy night.

A shoe was in the pit, it lay like day,

With a hammer and a mite of copper placed—

A note said this,

“Leprechaun’s are hard working folk,

“Who do not store up treasures to bray.

“For when we find one worthy

“We open our horde to make one very lucky soul so gay.”