The Sovereign reigns on high
enthroned behind the sky
Aware of our distressing woe
He oversees the tragic show
as lies with bullets fly.

Unmoved he sees the dead
beholding him in dread
unable to reverse their course
their being severed from its source
aware of what’s ahead.

The judgement never ends
although we miss our friends
who never yielded unto grace
and now must read upon Christ’s face
a message that offends.

∅☢☯✰✿⚥∅☯✰✿☠☯✰

Religion, you harlot and ****** of the masses

I smell the stagnation you bring upon earth.

Gold becomes lead, in stained roseate glasses

diluting, corrupting, negating its worth.

Hierarchical structure and pseudo-anointing

seem holy— but prove antithetic to Christ

whose transparently sure apostolic appointing

began a new age, and sufficed.

I renounce you, religion. Your temples lie fallen…

the future arises from ruins, ever new.

Mere human unrighteous momentum must stall

when the truth spins around into view.

He was scorned, he was vilified; slain for your sin

Abrahamic philosopher, healer and friend

yet perceived as demoniac right to the end.

His beginning is here in your heart. Never fear:

Dead religion must perish for true love to win.

Hermeneutics imploding—His coming is near

Give him a skinhead, insignia, boots

Less scruples, a swagger-stick, crowds, money.

No black shirts visible. Just business suits,

and pride is restored: tragic but funny.

Proud like a skyscraper, godless as sin

Babylonian promises, towering lies

Reality shows when plutocrats win,

Their rhetoric raining from empty skies.

She-wolves, elected by uninformed sheep

behave predictably, eyeing the flock

Their wool (and the lamb-chops) are hers to keep

Grazing voter—this should come as no shock.

It’s a bitter pill (more like pilloried)

So shall we now be ******* or Hillary-ed?

It's Sunday again for you cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness, the magic and myth;
who trust in your wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:

"Why bother with worship—in church or the zoo—
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?"
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.

You've bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded, satanic—

while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothingness, sure of specifics
ensconced in your kitchen of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.

Those simple plebeians:  you'd love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.

Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let's read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you—not whether but when.

The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.

The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
oh sinner—there's something amiss:

The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan while you're reading the Times...
(immune to the words that some Christarded  poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)

Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical squawk.
Then she'll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will talk.

It is Sunday in Babylon.  What if your sunlight ends...
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast—or calculate dividends...
what would you pay for salvation?

for Richard, the boy who narrated life*

Today, leaves are falling.
“One day Aaron will watch the falling leaves.”
The first day of school arrives.  
“One day Champ’s mom will take him to school.”

Life is the story of life, says the narrator.

Life expands. The story lengthens.
The intertwined threads begin to pull apart.

Life is surface and sheen,
laughter, tears, opaque signs.
The story strains after fictive frames,
the hero’s epiphany, the villain’s inner pain,
and undreamt creatures beyond human sense.

And so myth and magic
give form to stories
that we no longer star in.  
New worlds take shape
where the story creates its own life,
an escape from "the shock of recognition."

In time the threads converge again.  
Life’s pattern breaks and needs a new plot.
The stories yield their human meaning—
maybe we were in them all along.

The story ends and life goes on.
Life ends and the story goes on.

Endorphins need to be released
In the quest for happiness and peace,
So if you love it let it go
And feel the joy it can bestow

your pen starts speaking, when your mouth can't anymore