Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
ConnectHook May 2016
Α Ω**

When this digital dark age passes
and smartphone screens go dead
we shall all return to vibrant life
and think upon what is said

We shall look up, toward vast horizons
recalling dimly-lit square centimeters of data
finger-scrolling memories in the afterglow.
We shall again behold the reach of sky
from the mouths of our caves and pit-houses.
We shall know the Creator as well as the Creation.
We shall communicate.
Α Ω
last poem posted for NaPoWriMo 2016 !
∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰
ConnectHook Apr 2016
∅☢☯✰✿⚥∅☯✰✿☠☯✰

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

a poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016

www.connecthook.wordpress.com
ConnectHook Apr 2016
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.

a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016

www.connecthook.wordpress.com
my heart will soon expire
during a blinding rage against
a travesty passing as light breeze
in the storm of this ungodly hour
we sit silent in our own mundane and minute plans
miniscule needs, fraudulent desires
night holds no wishes
no dreams
there is no life in the eyes of these sad children
only the grin of instant gratification

I remember when there were dreams
when there was room for thought
room to search the vast landscape of our consciousness
the curse of having lived before the digital age

we are fading as we flash our rehearsed smiles
we are cooking in our own tasteless juices
we struggle deciding on coke zero or diet pepsi  
as our brothers are beheaded

and we don't blink
ConnectHook Apr 2016
✿   ✿   ✿


Haiku is not true

poetry by any means:

formulaic = dull

Take a haiku (yawn...)

a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016

www.connecthook.wordpress.com
ConnectHook Apr 2016
ክብረ ነገሥት

Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic,
forgive us. The wicked wax demonic.
Golden vessels fill with foulness
man is bankrupt, sold and soulless
Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian.
Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.


Tested with questions, her spirit once gone,
occultic suggestions postponed her dawn.
(Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold
paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold.
Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner
You think He intends to have Satan the winner?)
Her ruins now surveyed by satellite
beheld on the screens of the Canaanite:
canals to expose, southern deserts to cross,
Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss),
the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast,
treasures of darkness presented, now past
have us checking those texts that worldlings despise
as we wait under dread Luciferian skies.

Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll;
let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl !
(or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven
till *****’s infinitude totals seven…)
Exhume Axum with the ****** of Marib.
decode the encryption on Adam’s rib
unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine—
Blast from the past: she explodes on our scene!
Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty
(our Biblical transcendental duty).
The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it?
Beersheba? She brew ! Let us rise to fulfill it.
from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready:
Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady.
For after explosions there’s mess to clean up,
and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.
ክብረ ነገሥት
a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
Next page