They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

Something enormous is flooding my mind—
Love? Or another deception designed?
Fools disappear into Ignorance deep,
Never aware of the Evil’s grand scheme.

Tend to your small world with “love” and devotion,
Cherish your “friendship” and all that emotion.
Yet in the end, things are “getting much better”
By grinding down souls and minds till they shatter.

Water’s unseen by a foolish small fish,
Glass sets no limit to knowledge it swished.
Lies that are vast are as air—unperceived,
If you are fed and your body’s not grieved.

If walls of a prison enclose all around,
Only a fool sees the world unbound.
All like the guppies have drifted astray—
Slaves, yet too blind to escape or betray.

The world is sick—repeats consume,
Each generation meets its doom.
A plague of lies spreads night and day,
And leaves us slaves who must obey.

Falsehood echoes, loud and clear—
The schemers work to sow the fear,
Erasing truth with every breath,
And binding minds till spirit’s death.

Truth is Spirit—hold it tight,
Through storms of soul, through darkest night.
If mere survival is your goal,
The Dark will surely steal your soul.

Heroic effort brings no gain—
This world’s too foolish, dull, and grim.
Genocide is but the chain
That Evil writes for fools like him.

It sets the script—its slaves obey,
Encouraging the idiot throng.
The villains know: the fools won’t stray
But call all madness right, not wrong.

They’ll bow to lies, accept the claim
That “Good” means nonsense, cruel and trite.
The play continues—just the same,
And souls keep dying in the night.

For that’s the plan: let Reason drown,
So fools, consumed by endless lies,
Can turn to cattle, beaten down,
As raving madness multiplies.

Thus, those who think must change their art—
To fight the Dark in smarter ways.
The swine obey the Devil’s heart—
We must not charge into the maze.

First, stop and think—don't just repeat
The blind crusades that failed before.
Or else you'll lead the mindless fleet
To darkness, chaining them once more.

Not salvation. Dailiness.
Still learning after all
Took the train from London
River Eden, Wetheral

Mexican food for lunch
A little afternoon rest
Try to call my son
Qualyxian the Quest

Small victories
Carolina blue
Rothko's TV sets
Susan Meek not Sue

              2072

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A Pensioners Poem

They decaffeinated
My coffee

Gave my Guinness
A vasectomy 0.0%

****** doesn’t work
For me

Between fake, & real
Teeth’s, a dichotomy!

Continue to be patient
And trust your journey.

Disasters—pros can stage them well,
To keep the slaves in mental hell.
That you’re in deep—no fool will see,
They'll let it slip unconsciously.

It doesn't all work out right in the end
Just the good day bad day blues
Try to write some poetry
Best to avoid the news

1 prayer for Chicago
Got my walkin' shoes
Thank you, Father Greeley
God bless your clues

                        Ole!