Tag: Poetry

I Don’t Pretend to be Perfect

I don’t pretend to be a theologian.

Maybe I am.

I don’t pretend to be a philosopher.

Maybe I am.

I don’t pretend to be a journalist.

I know I’m not.

I don’t pretend to use perfect grammar.

I definitely don’t.

 

An unlearned man could

Find some ecclesiastical truth.

A man who got a B in philosophy

Could rediscover truth.

A person who doesn’t report on the news

Could find something newsworthy.

A man who makes a few dozen spelling or grammar mistakes

Could possibly be a good writer.

 

A lot of faux intellectuals have posited their claims

Into the meanings of scripture.

A lot of men who don’t know what Existentialism or Platonism are

Could have said, and gotten successful, with their brands of philosophy.

A lot of news journalists could have missed

The blatant facts, and never put them together.

And I know there have been writers who don’t use punctuation.

 

I hope one day to join the conversation

But as a still, little voice

And not a Fabius Maximus on a megaphone.

The Humble Bee, By Ralph Waldo Emerson,—My Interpretation

I see Ralph Waldo’s Humble-Bee

As it drifts from coasts to seas

Wiser than the wisest seer

With no callous, vapid fear.

 

It is worker, with great buzz

It flies all day without a fuss.

To be this welcome humble-bee

Poet, not rebel, to draw honey

From every choice Bulbell

From every draping honeysuckle

From the tulips, and the trees

Sweet fruit and cherry berries.

 

For to draw from this I would adorn

Epicurean wisdom in its form.

For wise, oh wise, humble-bee

Drawing forth your sweet honey.

To be a humble-bee I confess

Would be something of the best.

To draw from each wise scholar found

A wise enchantment, no chaff unsound.

 

For is this not the humble-bee

Flying, wiser than you or me?

A poet, lauded for his fame

Working with silent, cheery claim

Upon every bulbous flower stock;

The humble-bee would feed the flock

Of scholars reckless, proud and few

In a time which comes so new.

 

To collect all wisdom,

None profane,

To ever see a thing

Ere what’s atop a flower stem.

Beautiful golds, whites and reds

Violets and blues and crimson bread

Of nectar to put in hexagonal beds

To make into honey, so sweet and soft.

So the next generation’s wisdom is not lost.

Why I Write

When I work

I get a feeling of satisfaction.

I see the job is getting done.

I am happy that I can do the job.

 

Then, another sees it

And decides to compete with me.

I undoubtedly fail.

 

I would enjoy scooping the horse poop

Out of the stables.

I would undoubtedly get sore

Within a few hours of doing it.

I would fail miserably.

 

Then, I wouldn’t feel worth the dollar I was given.

I would feel useless, and not worth the money paid for the task.

Then I’d slow down,

And another person would come

He or she would do a better job than I could.

 

I’d feel even less worth my dollar.

I’d get depressed.

I’d quit the job because

I would feel that there is no place for me there.

 

As it would turn out

All I needed might just be practice.

Practice, but the fact that I would feel worthless

I wouldn’t be able to get the practice in.

 

Only because it would be a competition.

Only because I would get weak and sore.

Only because I know that I am not doing

A satisfactory job.

 

This is why I write.

Seven Evidences

The Seven Evidences

The first evidence
Is Word.
Men can—
No, they do—
Communicate with one another.

Man can—
No they do—
Come to conclusions
Simultaneously
Like an arrow head
And feather;
Or a sled;
Or Existentialism;
Or the Golden Rule;
Or, even a Yeti.

Men can—
No they do—
Understand what someone means
Simply by the liquor of
Our Words
Whether in writing or in speech.
Men do, however
Forget this.

The second evidence
Is goodness.
It does exist.
Love, peace, joy
These are unequivocally good.
There can be no doubt
In any man’s mind
That each is good.
Or that each exists.

Every man has tasted love
Every woman joy
And it brings them closer
Than science ever could
To the truth.
Love exists…
We know this
Because there is warmth
In us and there is friendship
And deep, spiritual bonds
Between lover and mate.

There are children,
There are families,
There is pleasure
There is grace.
There is forgiveness.
These, men from the bottoms
Of their hearts know it is so.

The third evidence
Is Creation.
There is a Virgin giving birth.
There is a Church Steeple touching
An Arrow
Which points to a Cross
Which points to a Robed Man
Who points back to the arrow.
There is a Trinity in the summer
Where these stars hang.
There is David
Goliath, The Sacrificial Ox.
Yes… Orion has a sling.

There are the animals
Who love, and show favor.
They are filled, and brim
With spirit.
They are filled with life.
The very existence of life
The very existence of breath
That the animals have
Which men can taste in
Their own spirit.

There is such complexity.
A feather could not come by chance.
It could not come in sixteen billion years.
Not even a sixteen googol billion years.
The reason why is that it is perfectly designed for flight.
A man built a plane
By observing the birds’ flight.
No one could assume
That the birds were not built.
For someone would have to—
I call Him God—
See the feathers made thrust
Lift, and could steer like a rudder.

The Fourth evidence
Are miracles.
Every man has seen several thousand in his life.
A horrible fall
Does not leave a trace of a scratch.
Driving down the highway
Too many times avoiding the fatal collision
Which happened several times,
Beating fate.
Seeing a loved one everywhere you go
Or never seeing an enemy no matter where you go.
Healings, signs, wonders
Sins being exorcised,
True victory over our deepest transgressions.
Demons cast out.

Feeling warmth flow through your arms
And into the sick
To see the blind healed
The deaf hear
The mute speak.
Opening up to the page in the Bible
Where David stole Bathsheba
That very page you asked for.
It happens several dozen times
Making it impossible to be mere chance.
Getting the answer from God
Or hearing God’s voice.
A prediction coming true
Which could not have ever been predicted.

A dream so real, and so beautiful
That it was like being awake
It flowed, the dream’s peace,
Awaking to see childhood ruined
Pound Puppy in the foot deep
Waters that trickled through the whole house.
Rain tapping against the shingles.
Walking out, sloshing through that water
Discussing the flood with your dad.
Looking outside to see the rain
A foot deep, hovering over each wooden bar
Each wooden rim, of your deck
With waterfall gaps in the waters—
More beautiful than that
The autumn leaves glistening
By the rain, with the waters a foot deep
Across the emerald grass.
Then the melancholy sadness.

The Fifth evidence
Is evil. There is evil.
There is death.
So there must be good.
There is rape.
There is murder.
There is theft.
There is war.
There is child abuse.
There is hate.
Something must destroy it
Once and for all.
No religion will
Or even claims to do this.
But, Someone must.
For God to be good,
It must happen that evil be destroyed.
That this suffering end once and for all.

Evil is in us.
It is something we taste.
It is something we all know
And know firsthand is not good.
And we cry out to have it removed from us.
We cry out to have it taken away from us.
Desperately, we are powerless to do so
Without some divine help.
We need help to rid ourselves
Of this blood-mess we’ve created in our lives.

This is the evidence where we always like
To point to God, and say, “Well you created it.”
Yes… to destroy wicked men.
To correct righteous men.
For if there is choice, there must be
In all regard, something with which to
Cause men to make the right choices.
It is why evil exists.
For without evil,
There can be good.—
But there can be no choice
To do what is good.
There would only be blind obedience.
And choosing to do evil
Being filled with glee and children
Throughout an entire life;
Then never getting caught
There must also be a penalty paid.
And there always will.

The Sixth evidence
Is Grace. Knowing we are depraved
There is one religion that says
“I know you are all murderers
“Slanderers, adulterers
“Thieves. Everything you’ve done in your heart
“I account it as if it was done
“In action. Therefore, I know you
“By persuasion, are capable of it.
“For, every thought can be,
“By witchcraft, made into a deed.
“For the LORD made it so
“That you are guilty
“Physically, for every deed you thought
“Because it, through a folkstem,
“Could have been accomplished.”

Therefore all men are guilty.
And only one religion knows
That in order to not be guilty
Or even be guilty of the crimes you know—
For the folkstems of your soul
Could make you guilty of more.—
Even things you’d never done,
Just the mere thought will make you
Capable of great crime.
It’s why you need grace to
Swallow up this sin
And make you guiltless.
You need Christ to be your Savior
Your spirit, and your strength.

For Christ lived a perfect life
He lived it, and the Greek is in present tense
Because when you do your one time offering
This story Christ will follow.
The present tense, it shows Christ is your sacrifice
Present, for an entire lifetime.
When you, my loved ones,
Make sacrifice, it is Christ.
And this is Why God in the flesh
The very Word come in the flesh
The very embodiment of reason
Of knowledge, of all righteousness
He came in the flesh.
And when you offer Him
This is what He does
In present tense
The moment you nail him to the tree.

The Seventh evidence
Is rest. Men need rest.
The Sabbath is rest.
Men, on Christmas
Are all a little happier
Because there is no work.
None is allowed.
Our sixty days of rest
A year, if all shared in that rest together
Men would be much happier.
They would feel more secure
And feel better.
They would not need their idols
To give them rest.

And eternal rest
Is the greatest gift.
We all crave it.
Suffering, whether emotionally
Spiritually, or physically
We all suffer for our sins.
We require rest
To be satisfied.
We require rest
For work is good,
But men need rest to enjoy their work.
And rest is good.

And even rest
Men need rest from their sins.
They need to be at rest
At peace, from all of their wicked doings.
Men cannot, or else perish,
Be in strife with every sin he’d committed;
Nor be in sin to cause him unrest;
To work for the covering is to be in unrest.
Such would be hellish,
So man needs rest from his sins
In order to be good.
For a man cannot be good
Who has no rest from sin.
He who is at agitation
Because of his sins
He cannot be good to his neighbor.
Therefore, Jesus gives us rest
And He is the only God who will
And says, “I paid it.
“Rest on me.”
For, it is rest that makes us good.
We need to be at rest from our
Guilty consciences. Otherwise
We will have no rest
And therefore, we put others at discomfort, too.

A Simple Poem

A friend likened God to Santa Clause

Saying that a man ought to sit his son down

And tell that new man, “God doesn’t exist.”

 

It’d be like a parent sitting a child down

To a roast dinner, and saying to that boy,

“This isn’t really healthy, it just tastes good.”

 

To describe spirit to a man who won’t understand it

It’s like having in my possession a priceless diamond

But the buyer calls its Cubic Zirconia.

 

What a corrupt civilization that would be,

Too, for men to have in their possession

50 Carat diamonds, and the whole society claims, “It’s a fake.”

 

He doesn’t understand why God exists.

Why we need Him.

Because our God is our Spiritual food.

 

Why do you need Spiritual food?

Because you need it to be kind.

You need it to love unconditionally.

 

A man can point to the goodness inside himself

And say, “I made that.”

I will ask him, “Did you really?”

 

I know any offense against that man

Will be enough to lose that little bit

Of selfish love forever.

Of Theodore Marmaduke, Canto XII

Theodore Marmaduke, a Chamberlain    Chains of Judecca were sentence for his charge.

He was possessed by a perfect choirmaster,    Chosen by God to sing the strongest hymns.

The specter’s voice was perfect pitch     His notes were strong and savory.

His angelic instrument was his pipes     Which sung loud for the nations to hear.

He coveted the stories of Bromdun     To see is they could secure truth.

For no story was good to Marmaduke    Unless it could be made true.

So for fun he set the trap in motion      To make Bromdun’s stories true.

Yet, for metaphor they were,     But for meat of lucid metal, to touch

They were not lucid enough to touch     But rather were truths taught about covetousness

Or murder, or slander, or social ills     When strength would stir and tyrants would still

The populace. For Theodore Marmaduke      Sought to overthrow the Great King,

So with him Bromdun Kratz Nuewfer,     A titular prince with no crown, except one new.

The New Crown one given by Christ     For the worldly sorrows were corundum

To be cracked by the Diamond edge     Of grace’s devoted diadems.

 

Theodore Marmaduke loved the stories    Of Bromdun’s illustrious bow.

He was brilliant to make stories come to pass      Bright and marveled on the lookingglass.

Theodore Marmaduke could, in fact,      Find words to fill his lute’s forms,

To sing and write, for Theodore Marmaduke      Was wisest of the false gods.

Find not he did his sister’s sex     Nor found he and married her.

Rather, he was the hoary humph      Of a forgotten, ne’er to be hero.

He was not Chief among the saints,      Silly salvo, nor was he perfect in all chosen

Arts of man, to call wise and welcome     By the muses. For he worshiped the muses.

He did, in fact, play with his puppets      And made all men a part of his plans.

He promised Bromdun to prosper nothing     He rather promulgated through witchiness

A woeful regret. To cause Bromdun to speak,     Though it was not Bromdun who spoke.

For Theodore Marmaduke was a cur     Caught in his own web of callousness.

 

Bromdun thought it was to think otherwise    Yet, Theodore Marmaduke was thoroughly

Invested in idealizing and bearing to fruit    Bromdun’s inventions and ideas.

For secretly was Marmaduke captured by them,    Even the ones so called kitch.

Distant memories has Bromdun of these conversations     He knows not what caused

The false memories to appear,      If not the maligned marring of his masterwork

Did Marmaduke make war upon Bromdun’s     Strong stories, to mortify him

For Bromdun was weak,      So therefore made rubicund one day, and therefore wise.

 

The Great King found war on his shores     So therefore shod away from Bromdun.

Therefore, in this next book to begin,    Bromdun will bring to bear the battle

That Bromdun must wage with Theodore Marmaduke    And so stop the warsongs

Of his kingdom’s callous cares.    For war is what Bromdun sought to conquer

And not kingdoms.      His only wish was to conquer war.

 

Of Theodore Marmaduke, Canto XI

Bromdun was an evil man.     Evil was he, a man lost

To his desires, when welcome thoughts     Of his wonderful good daunted

On him. He killed a rabbit, raw        With a rifle in six shots.

He was blind by boredom      And so therefore beheld wantonness.

His eyes opened when elucidated       To his past, that he was endangered

Of hellfire, for even a summary offense       But offense it was, therefore rude and hellish.

 

He was falsely accused.      According the acquittal he thought he would acquiesce

He was rather made into a monster     For a crime all men and women have maligned

Their souls with. Soon he sought     Some comfort, but none would soothe him.

He was not beaten. He was not bruised.     Battered instead by boisterous hatred

He was given a lifetime sentence     For not telling a lie.

He testified before kings that      War should not be touted; to be timid to fight

In wars that could waste all flesh      To wan the flesh—for pallid faces wan

When they see their sin,     And the sure sentence against it.

Ought they blush, bold and rubicund     Rather than wan badly.

For wan faces are ones about to wane;     But rubicund faces are ones about to win.

 

For Bromdun might have done more,     He will not make the claim that he is innocent.

Rather, he does not know, what more,      The malignity made of his brow.

He loves his country and President,     Pride swells in him for patriotic shores.

Rather, a mistake he would regret       Is the Patriot way relegated to regiments

Sent to sands of distant satraps’ sovereignties.     For sorrow would inhabit all faces then.

 

Bromdun merely wishes to be won by grace.      For the battles are wishful mental

Eyes. He fears the Ravens in the Woods      Might ravage him, for Theodore Marmaduke

Had sent ravens to ravish Bromdun.      Theodore Marmaduke sought to sortie

Against the Great King, after his failure      Fought fraught, and fortuitous for

Theodore Marmaduke.

Theodore Marmaduke wished to imprison Bromdun

For making his name known      Pekah Avram Ephraim, the merry marauder

Who marred the kingdoms,       Who made the nations tremble with care

To not offend him, Great Liege Athena.     Yet, one greater worse than Marmaduke

Lie at the helm of the wars wasting      The faces to wan. That is Maddok’s woe

Who wishes to whip the kingdoms      Into hellfury, and therefore weltch

The world of its weapons     To bring all the living ones to woe.

 

Theodore Marmaduke, Canto X

Theodore Marmaduke, who was death’s        Puppet, caused a Prince to pause

At his false female form.      The Prince foresaw that Marmaduke was fit

And had good, graceful character     To create a sense of gaudy gluttony.

This Prince was an Egyptian Imam       Who had great Emeritus in his kingdom.

Theodore had sinned,      With murderous slander

When he captivated the Imam.      The Prince “consoled” Marmaduke

And so therefore took him into        The towering kingdoms of golden steeples.

For, Theodore Marmaduke was under      Assault by a Great King, unaware

That the Imam’s palaces would pour      Down their golden palisades into clear, streams

When the Great King      Killed his kingdom’s crews.

Theodore Marmaduke had tried     To kill the Great King’s friend, Bromdun

So the Great King embarked on an emissary     To draw Marmaduke out of the castle.

 

The Great King sent word,      “Give me Theodore Marmaduke, and I will spare thise.”

But the Imam did not, but rather sent shafts     Shot down, skewering the front ranks.

The Great King, knowing this meant war,      Took siege engines of brass and knocked

Upon the golden palisades of the Imam’s walls.     Great fires poured from the dropped

Gates of the siege towers, turning    The golden palisades to rainbow torrents

Of clear, streaming golden waters.     Men on the palisades waked through the mortar

Their flesh melting from the streams     Of liquid gold molten, flowing to the streets

Where men, as it cooled     Could be seen, arms mixed in like straw.

 

The war of the American revolution      Retained its great and hearty revolt

But now Bromdun had an ally     Unknown to him, for all was going well.

The Imam heard word that his walls were      Wallowing in their golden streamed wakes

That his men, in the cooled gold      Were but fleshstraw in hardened gold mortar.

The Great King took the Capital of the city,      Looked for Marmaduke that crass

Cutthroat killer, but could find     Him not. Yet, armies held on the hills

For a reserve force hidden in the hills     Ran in with great rain of cavalries’ hooves

For the Imam’s glory. Horsemen glade      Over the hill country, and into river gullies.

The Great King withdrew his halberds     So forced his general to haul into enemy spears

On a small number of horsemen.     Horrified, the Great King made a retreat

For the rustic palaces were taken,     The women in the kingdom ravaged

But the Great King had wasted his     Force at the gates, when the hooves harrowed

Great and numerous foes’ foray      By the feet of burnished cavalry.

The Great King lost general and crew       So withdrew in great retreat, languishing.

He held in the barracks, broken       As Theodore Marmaduke escaped boldly.

 

For, Bromdun was not Beowulf,     But was good nonetheless. Brazen

He thought himself a prophet,     But proved to be only a man persuaded

By his love for peace and prosperity.     Every word Bromdun spoke was for peace

To prevent war, yet the Great King provoked     Conflict at Egypt’s walls, wasted

Were the forces spent, stark naked were they     When they strode off into the sticks.

Theodore Marmaduke was giddy with glee      When the Great King’s forces gave way

To the Numidian Calvary in great numbers      Gnawing away at the Phalanx of America.

For, if they had not engaged the general     Against the Phalanxes of Numidian enclave

The general’s horses would not have waned     In battle to flight, so therefore jut him

Off his steed. His steed broken and bloody.       Bruised, the forces fled golden palisades.

The King of Tyre

There was an Emerald king,

Who deceived himself to claim,

“I am the seated God.”

 

Tyre’s prince besought one worthy for himself

To destroy. He searched roaming like a lion.

Word has reached a prophet of the LORD

That Tyrus speaks to consume that Emerald king.

To, to consume,—therefore, LORD

I beseech Thee, cause the little one to repent before

He becomes the so aforementioned King.

 

LORD, Tyre’s king seeks a consort

And Tyre’s Prince a concubine.

LORD, a righteous man speaks

With words, to a King of ashes and dung:—

Repent, O’ Barren of one of words.

For a desert land shall you be cast

If you do not repent.