Globally dense, our ailing nation
makes one weep for sheer frustration
thoughts and dreams grow numb.
Tech-addled students scroll on phones,
‘midst scent of android pheromones,
wafting digital dumb.
Pop-culture, narcissist unkind
dispenses with the human mind
which, failing further, falls behind
the grimly global curve.
We read, in writing on the wall
arithmetic’s impending fall
while numbers loiter in the hall
to get what they deserve.
ENQUIRY, tagged as D.O.A,
a sheeted stiff, is wheeled away
her mourners left to grieve.
entitled maiden, full of sass,
LIBERTY begs a bathroom pass
her bladder to relieve.
When zit-faced rebels run the show
the dismal ratings plummet low;
a vulgarized cartoon.
Descending to unfathomed levels,
Ignorance applauds her devils
calling out their tune.
PATRIOTISM, tarred and feathered
headless, claws its cage untethered
foul, unloved, unfree:
Another casualty of time
which fell for want of noble rhyme;
to water FREEDOM’s tree.
CURIOSITY, half asleep,
now stirs and murmurs from the deep
uninterested, untaught.
She grows yet duller in her ways
returning to her ocean daze,
(her schools of fish uncaught).
HISTORY, dormant, lies in dust
a narrative no man can trust
a book no scholar reads.
Events unstudied as designed
wherein the heart of humankind
for want of context, bleeds.
DEMOCRACY degenerates
until God wills and activates
a nation’s drive to learn.
Curricula will be made void;
disheartened teachers unemployed,
their wisdom fit to burn.
You think the past was less obtuse?
Less prone to youthful thought-abuse?
Perhaps… back in the day.
And though it may have been the same.
this poet opts to place the blame
on digital delay.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
#*Weapons have been developed
to create the damaging effects
of high-energy EMP. These are typically divided into nuclear and non-nuclear devices. Such weapons, both real and fictional, have become known to the public by means of popular culture.*
Wikipedia
One E.M.P. could bring this whole thing down;
finale to steal the technocrats’ crown.
Did God intend for us to live this way
like hell on credit with heaven to pay?
One burst of apocalyptic clarity:
all it would take to reverse the polarity…
one massive electro-magnetic pulse
the data-driven ********* to convulse.
You were dumbed down so they could set you up
to drink from the Nanny-State’s golden cup…
This Babylonian One-World vintage
exacerbates thirst: accursed beverage,
enhancing global madness as it’s drunk;
imbibers cannot gauge how low they’ve sunk.
The dregs are drained, only to be refilled;
the elixir of doom is thusly swilled.
When the chips go down as the system ends
and there’s no cash paid for your dividends,
assurance (like health insurance) falters
as your inhuman condition alters.
By then you’ll be ready to wonder why
(although you appear unready to die)
whether Man without God is worth a ****
in the Sovereign Redeemer’s master-plan.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
#*Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea?
or hast thou walked in the search of the depth?
Have the gates of death been opened unto thee?
Hast thou perceived the breadth of the earth?
declare if thou knowest it all.*
Job 38: 16-18
*Oh that the desert were my dwelling place,
With only one fair spirit for my minister.
That I might forget the human race,
And hating no one, love her only.*
Lord Byron,Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
I walked alone into the waste
in search of rivers—not a taste
of water could I find
to liquidate my mind.
Under the sun in vanished lakes
alive with scorpions and snakes
I sought within my soul
her limpid watering hole.
The mogollón once hunted here
as piñon pines disclosed the deer
but now not even bones
remained among the stones.
Scattered beads and the odd spearhead
my visionary soul misled;
the moment was my home
and I was free to roam.
Burial caves of ash and silence
spoke in tones of bygone violence—
grinding stones lay broken:
her archeological token.
I found a *** within a niche
still balanced well, despite the pitch
as if the owner’s urn
awaited her return.
Amidst the fragments, free at last
in potsherd patterns of the past
I followed ancient streams
through arid zones and dreams.
Exploring a dry riverbed
unraveling her golden thread
while stepping off a ledge
descending from the edge,
I almost trod upon a snake
and quick adjustment had to make.
Reluctant viper-battler,
I flinched. It was a rattler.
As my right foot continued down
I saw the scales and dusty brown;
Mere inches from its head
the imprint of my tread!
The serpent was too cold and slow
to strike a poisoned morning blow
The sun still in the east—
I swerved and missed the beast.
The desert’s charm advanced from there;
She showed me sights I barely dare
to tell lest I sound singed . . .
My mind she so unhinged.
I stood before the gate of vision
rapt in shadowed indecision
gazing in the maw,
unsure of what I saw:
A ruined mineshaft’s empty grin
that mocked and whispered: “Come within.
The words of Job are here
in wisdom born of fear.”
Necropolis; a gaping portal…
Feeling less than weakly mortal,
deep I stared inside;
allured yet terrified.
A passage to the depths of dread:
the Book of Job, the sleeping dead.
I barely now recall
yet understood it all…
Still thirsting through her arid land
divining truths in shifting sand
I ventured on in vain,
beseeching God to reign
The javelinas mocked my quest
beguiled me onward, further west
where Dutchmen hide their gold
and Apache tears are sold.
Her rainbow shades and distant mesas
silhouetted, paint her face as
nobly as the lands
her presence still commands.
Her beauty smiled: a virtual face
of glyphic pre-Columbian grace
decentralized desire
in sublimated fire…
She led me to the springs of life
my moonlight maid and desert wife;
my nights upon the mountains
in search of spectral fountains.
Ex-nomad of the mythic west
my unfound treasure now confessed;
her deserts had me smitten…
for her my poem’s written.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
The oil lamp cast its noble glow,
while shadows darkened all around,
on leaders in the global know
whose darkness by its light was found.
Just then, the lantern's leaky wick
flared up. The whole benighted place
ignited like a Wiki-Leak
inflaming each tyrannic face.
The Media pitched their low-ball gloss
and tried to polish up the mess
by spinning such a global loss
as sure electoral success.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
white winged water walker
filled my dreamy head
sliding, gliding on shimmering glass
far from my land locked bed
once a child and filled with awe
my visions shamelessly bold
a water walker I would be
and straw could turn to gold
but spinning orbs wash one with age
and weight one's wings with years
flights of endless prowess
are grounded by groundless fears
yet when blind night blocks the light
and one's mind is free to explore
childhood's chirping vision
is again allowed to soar
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
In the land of liars,
the honest man
must
be
crucified.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
we are barren but not bare
to those who bother to stare
we are soaked in silent, sullen mist
but are simply happy to exist
in winter's cloaked passage of time
we speak softly in the fading light
of the fallen leaves, their plight
when strange souls plod on this sacred ground
we are careful to make no sound
save whimsical whispers in curious rhyme
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC