I have a bad tick.
Grace heals it until I doubt.
Grace heals it again.
Tag: Poetry
Heaven’s Seasons
What if as frequently as you fed others
In Heaven, God would cook for you?
What if, the greatest you gave on earth
God would give to you?
What if every time you accompanied the prisoner
God, in heaven, would enter into your home?
What if, for every person you bestowed kindness
God would show a kindness to you?
What if heaven followed your life’s seasons,
And those seasons you “slipped,”
God would be elsewhere?
What if whenever the homeless found comfort in your house
God would give you room and board in his very mansion?
What if every good deed on earth
In heaven, God did equal the deed for you?
What if heaven has seasons
And for every kindness bestowed
On another human being
God bestowed an even greater kindness.
In our seasons, God gave us according to our seasons?
Like spring, winter and fall,—
Summer seasons,
The wet seasons,
Would be the seasons we gave to the homeless
Fed the widows,
The orphans
And showed kindness?
What if the least we could offer was lip service?
What if the least of kindness
Was “Sharing” the gospel?
What if the greatest was showing the gospel?
What if God didn’t want us to argue about whether He existed
But rather showed He existed
With our goodness here on earth?
What if this is what Christ meant by saying,
“Store up your treasure in heaven.”
What if every shekel you gave to the poor
Were worth a talent of gold in Christ’s kingdom?
What if, being very poor,
That same shekel were worth ten talents of gold?
What if, being the widow
Who put in her mite,
You received a thousand talents of gold,
And two thousand talents of copper?
And with this God would spend to build you a mansion?
What if by giving tents to the homeless
God would provide in your mansion
An entire corridor?
What if by giving a book,
You received a library?
What if by giving time
You received time with the Father himself?
Whose stew is better than even the heavenly food?
What if God’s greater servants
Would be your reward,
For living life with luke-warm kindness?
You would be approached by them
Much like one is approached by a Count
Instead of a Prince
Or a Marquis instead of a King?
What if there are some
Who spent an entire lifetime being good
Believing in Christ’s grace
And Grace Salvation
But did very little?
For those internal acts
God might send a Duke
Or a Viscount
Or a Baron.
But, those acts of kindness
The great feats which we accomplished
To help the poor, the homeless
The downtrodden,
What if Christ the King Himself
In the Flesh God gave Him
Or the very Father Himself
Came to your home
Each season at its season
For eternity, and for that season
He came?
Perhaps, this is a good way of looking at Works.
A Dream
There were two walls
Which opposed one another.
One was made of corn.
The other was made of mud.
The bodies of the slain in war
Were the straw that bound the mortar
Of the two walls.
The multitudes slain were like that of
A multitude, that of thirty-eight thousand, thousand;
And the other wall was more than this
Whose skulls shewn through the mortar.
Evil was on both sides, and neither side had righteousness.
Now is a time for talk, and not for war.
Two Worlds Clash
A woman makes a kerosene lamp
And pops popcorn in a Pepsi can.
Two women replicate the task,
And don’t understand kerosene is dangerous.
Unfortunately, it claims a life.
In my back yard, fifty caliber rifles
Semi Automatic rifles, pistols
All echo down the valleys
From the local gun ranges.
I feel perfectly safe, though I hear them.
In fifty percent of the nation’s back yard
The same thing happens
But bodies end up being wheeled out
Of the local urban blocks.
They feel threatened because they hear them.
My friend makes napalm
Rides with one fist wrapped around a tractor
And a foot loosely straddled to the only sliver
Wide enough to get a foothold.
He blows up groundhog nests with the napalm.
A city dweller thinks a groundhog looks
Like a bunny rabbit,
Grows attached to it
And then hears this story and is disgusted.
I sit for ten hours scraping meat off of a butchered cow.
Hours earlier, the owner was chest deep in its guts.
We sit, and pleasantly discuss life plans
And enjoy the day; it’s a pleasant afternoon.
Another person has never seen something die…
Except maybe a roach or ant…
And then gets offended at the mere thought.
Nor can he imagine the fat littered around the grass
Looks a lot like white rubber.
A baby Inuit plays with a knife at three months old.
A conservative farm boy shoots a .22 caliber rifle
At seven. He also goes four wheeling and dirt biking
And swings on a rope that hangs over his dad’s wood shed.
Civilized society can’t even hold a sharp knife until they are ten;
Are strapped in a car seat until they are about a grown adult
Don’t understand that fire can burn;
And don’t understand that knives are sharp.
These two worlds are clashing right now.
They are our Republican and Democrat respectively.
And like an Ulcer, the pain gets worse
Right before it heals.
What will heal it
Is to know that when you see more trees than people
It’s different than when you see more people than trees.
I think J.D. taught me this.
If you like what you’ve read, click the link below and purchase a copy or two of my books.
Ethos
What interests me,
Is that in youth,
We don’t care who sung a song.
Flagrantly, it could have been the most foul human being in the world.
Try and tell us who it is,
Who sung it, we’d deny it.
We wouldn’t want to believe it.
We’ll greatly deny the truth
Because we like the song.
In older years,
Who the artist is makes all the difference.
One can hear a song
Sung the same
By two different people.
One a good man
The other a bad…
Each with there slightly different tune.
I can’t listen to the one anymore…
Though their songs used to be so beautiful.
A man makes the meaning.
Johnny Cash sings the song good.
It now means something different
Because Johnny had sung the song.
Same lyrics… same chord progression.
But it means something different
Being sung by by a different man.
And how the man makes the meaning
Even as much as the poetry we read.
One man is Elvis;
The other Homer.
They both sing the same gospel hymn.
One is American.
The other is Greek.
One is about salvation.
The other is to scorn it.
The man made the songs
As much as the songs made the man.
A man sings one song,
It means a different thing
When it is sung by a different man.
The men sing their songs
Different, though the same lyrics
Because it is the man who made the lyrics mean
What they meant.
If you like what you’ve read, click the link below and purchase a copy or two of my books.
The People’s Court of Judge Anthony
Drama in the court room.
All people want to know.
Who killed who?
Who shot who?
Who slit who’s throat?
With a camera in the court room
All people will be able to know.
How we can hear the emotional response
The victim on the stand.
The innocent man in the defendant’s chair
We’ll never know because the show had lots of fans.
The news will show the testimonies
The people will see the show…
Court rooms, justice
It’s all just for entertainment anymore.
We love to see the victim
Speak their sad, sad story.
The defendant is always guilty
Like the away team at the park.
But, for show, they always put him behind bars.
For our justice is a competition
To get the man behind bars.
Regardless, that you break the rules of the Bar.
You want your quota filled,
Irregardless to whether he committed the crime.
“Get that bad guy…”
But the investigation never takes the time.
There is the victim
On the chair singing their tune.
Most of the times they don’t even know;
And that defendant could one day be you.
You could be picked up off the street
For being in the wrong place.
The conviction could be based
On evidence that damns your fate.
Evidence, such as a little sliver of DNA.
You blew your nose on a hanky
And there it ended up near the scene.
Or, there’s a man trying to frame you
In order to get you back for some odd thing.
All that matters, is that the judge is always right.
Piously she sits there,
Seeing the defendant and the victim fight.
The victim, the victim, is always, always right.
It could be a false accusation
About rape or about a theft.
Maybe you had a one night stand
And we can all know now the rest.
Remember this, my friendly loves
The fact is so awfully grand…
In an age where the television is master
Our victims always win when they take the stand.
It’s no longer “Innocent until proven guilty…”
It is “Guilty until the gavel hits the grain.”
And the fact is everyone is guilty,
So, it is all going to end the same.
You raped a woman who had consensual sex…
According to Biblical laws it stands.
Pay the 500 dollars
But it is a capital offense in this land.
All of you, all of you,
Could be guilty of this crime.
A woman’s scorn berates you
Or you were a child, and didn’t lie.
TV courts, we all sympathize with the victims.
Because it’s easy, we all want to be.
But we’re all the flagrant felon,
That includes you, him, her, and even me.
If you like what you’ve read, click the link below and purchase a copy or two of my books.
To, Athena; A Metaphor About Today’s Capitalism
A Metaphor About Today’s Capitalism:
I recognize who you are.
I know you’re not the only one causing problems.
Frankly, though,
In a vision, as you doddled your clone on your knees,
Teaching him things you shouldn’t have…
You said you should be put in jail.
You said everything you do is legal.
This isn’t entirely true.
There are not allowed to be Trusts
Under US economic policies.
Corporations are supposed to compete with one another.
They aren’t supposed to band into leagues.
For very good reason…
On that account, you’ve broken every Trust law there is.
On a second account,
Monopolies are illegal.
But, you end up owning both brands
The red and the blue…
Wouldn’t that be considered a monopoly?
At the very least an Oligopoly?
I understand the attack is twofold.
On one hand, we’re being attacked by North African dictators.
They own half of our media.
On the other hand,
You’re in league with them.
Just like Ephraim was in league with Assyria.
Two powerful kingdoms
Forging their alliances…
The Corporation
And the Dictator.
I see you’re not an idealist.
You’re a pragmatist.
But, so long as you know…
You told me the whole thing
Which I must have seen in a dream.
But, there are much bigger fish to fry.
If you’re Athena;— Moloch…
A Prince Thor;— Baal…
A king Allah;— Sin…
Then I suppose you should know
That there is a God of one peculiar nation
That you do not know.
His name is Jesus.
Not Homer Afon,
But the Living Christ.
Write a Brainstorm
Write a brainstorm
Let the novel sit for two years…
It sits, hidden in the book collection
Of hand written journals.
A pet project here,
A pet project there,
Maybe a modern novel will be written by my fingers.
Idolatry… I hope this art isn’t idolatry.
I love writing…
I love it.
The pride of authorship
The joy of seeing myself grow.
Seeing the pangs of youth
Burgeon to the strength of mind in adulthood.
The communist rants
Turn into Burkean homilies.
For my less informed reader…
The one who doesn’t know what Burkean means…
There’s an old saying.
If you are not a liberal in youth,
You have no heart.
If you’re not a conservative in adulthood,
You have not yet grown up.
How the tea kettles I’ve talked about
Those torpid tea kettles
In the meaningful nonsense poems
Burgeon to strange worlds
And fantasies.
Yet, there sits my novel in a dozen pages…
The professional writer
Their obvious fault is that they prescribe too many rules.
The amateur writer,
Their obvious fault is that they follow too many rules.
How many spelling errors are there in my writing?
I don’t know…
How many comas misplaced?
I don’t know.
How many “Their”s mistaken for “They’re.”
I don’t know.
How many “Then”s
For “Than”.
I don’t know.
Sadness creeps into my bones
Because I don’t know how or what to write.
My self editing is sallow.
My work ethic failing.
Because I see either success or failure
Do not produce the results I want.
I don’t know what would satisfy me…
I eat, but am unsatisfied.
Just like Micah’s curse.
I wonder what reason I am cursed…
I look at my entire life and I find there
The fact that I have committed much wrongdoing.
The same amount as most radical feminists.
My sin is theirs,
But their sin everyone covers up.
Mine… it keeps me poor
Hated, unprotected,
Reliant on everyone else around me.
If I had the answer
I would find it.
It’s amazing to me how everyone just revels in sin
And seems happy and blessed.
I wait on God to judge them…
But He doesn’t.
The happiest on earth
I’ve found,
Are usually the most vile.
It’s why I’m a Christian.
They make a diligent search for sin
And it’s always found in me…
How that stings my breast to say it.
I cannot escape it.
What I would like…
Truthfully,
Is one woman to make love to my whole life
That I can trust with my very life.
This hobby, I would hope to eat from.
But I don’t want fame or fortune.
I can’t work,
Because Fairyland is real to me…
It’s always there in my mind as I sweep
Or mop, or stack crates.
This talent, I need to eat from it.
But I cannot. Some arcane force
Will not let me.
Call it a king, call it a queen
Call it FBI
Call it Satan…
I will call it what it is.
I don’t want to be famous.
What a stupid profession to get entangled in
If I didn’t want money or fame…
Self defeated, I will always self defeat.
Because I don’t want everyone talking about me.
I don’t want my laundry aired to the whole world
And made public, what I know is public
But at least now I don’t have to hear about it.
So… Athena, as it is,
Thinks he’s harming me by keeping me poor.
Really, he is just gobbling up the portion
That I know, in this day and age,
Would eat me up.
Satan… my bloggers,
Can be a kindness on a Christian.
He can take the world,
When you don’t want it.
He can gobble up fortunes,
When those fortunes would incur great wrath.
He can keep you poor,
When riches would steal your soul.
Jude’s greatest wisdom was this,
To not revile angelic majesties.
The reason why, is that Satan
Is there for our benefit, Christians.
How we don’t want to admit it,
But the rod is there for our bruises,
And the bruises are there for our growth.
We grow, and become great through our stripes.
Satan is not there to hurt you, Christians.
He is a roaring lion in the street…
He does wish to devour every one of us.
But Satan is called upon whom he is called.
It is God who unleashes the lion on your life.
And for that, he might gobble up your fortunes,
He might frustrate you with banal dreams…
He might even hold the very thing you want…
But know, a man who gets everything he wants
Is usually the same man who destroys himself.
Yes… someone prevents me from getting published.
Yes, it frustrates me.
Yes, a part of it is myself.
But yes, a part of it is a deal with the devil…
Not mine, but the LORD’s
Who made a bargain with Satan
In Job. Not so Satan could destroy Job.
No. Simply because Job needed to be abased
For self righteousness.
Did Job sin?
Righteousness is not a sin.
But if Job’s own right arm would bear him,
Let Job smite God’s enemies.
But he couldn’t.
If you like what you’ve read, click the link below and purchase a copy or two of my books.
Our Products
Truth is for sale—
Opinions, and neat little downloads
For our curious minds.
We sell them, like Bleach
Or like Coca-Cola.
Green is worth a few hundred million
Beta and Alpha males worth a couple more.
Libertarianism is a huge market
And Conspiracy Theories takes them all by storm.
Big Foot and Mermaids are now our History,
Aliens built the Pyramids.
Feminism makes lots of money—
Someone prospers off those vagina hats…
Republicanism and Democratism
Make a good, solid investment
Like they were treasury bonds.
They’re a small investment,
But one worth the time that you will ALWAYS make some money.
Multilevel Marketing schemes are worth a lot of money
So is self help.
So are the books we read,
So is the NFL trying to arbitrate Tuesday
As our holy day of doing laundry.
These are our products.
They are so efficient at being products,
That nobody really can get a word in edge wise.
It must all be cannon, and orthodox doctrine
According to the holy write
Of radicalism.
It must not be original
But must tout one party line.
If you believe in Markets
You must not believe in Global Warming.
If you believe in God
You must not believe in Evolution.
If you believe in gun rights
You must not believe in free healthcare.
See, it’s party lines
That have cornered the market on truth
And also their lies.
With truth on both sides of the argument
And lies therewith
The lies we believe are only as accurate as the truths we
Passionately hold onto; because we know the truth is accurate.
But, until the truth no longer exists
And only lies exist in our dogmas,
Those dogmas
Will be our indulgences.
Call me Martin Luther
Nailing my Ninety-Nine theses
On the door of Branding.
Brand is in my name;—
But, like you I am just another product.
Like Dogs
We make a cameo
In our lives, our
Perfectly specious lives; Lo!
Through the edges.
B. K. Neifert 