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ConnectHook Apr 2021
Echoing footsteps, near Port Authority:
One bad decision enhanced by beer
Recalling the mishap in anteriority:
I needed a healthier dose of fear.

Clueless young wallet, easy prey
I bit at the apple of urban bait
I was her golden goose to waylay
All because Amtrak departed late.

What if the door had been locked in that hall?
What if the lady had used a knife?
I wish I could blame it on alcohol . . .
Thank God I escaped with my life.
PROMPT#2:
write a poem about your own road not taken –
about a choice of yours and what might have happened

Based on a TRUE STORY !

https://connecthook.net/2019/09/19/black-wallet-in-the-big-apple/
ConnectHook Apr 2021
Then they shall be afraid and ashamed
of Ethiopia their expectation and Egypt their glory
.
                                                         ­   Isaiah 20:5

Pulsating freak anemones’
Protoplasmic revelation
Netherworld futilities:
Darwinistic thought-abortion.

Permanent Egyptian *******:
Eggman dragging Pharaoh’s ark . . .
Droning superficial sondage
Rises in black light of dark.

It’s Pharoah’s sub-Erythrean grave !
Sun Ra drones within the vault;
Atonal mode that cannot save . . .
(This is all Chad Van Gaalen’s fault.)
PROMPT#1
write a poem inspired by this animated version
of Seductive Fantasy by Sun Ra and his Arkestra.

https://youtu.be/bX_xh2do3eM
  Mar 2021 ConnectHook
Lawrence Hall
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                        The War on Books

          The war on books, codified by Stalin’s functionaries
          at the Soviet Writers’ Conference in 1934 and ruthlessly
          waged by the secret police for the following fifty years,
          was finally coming to an end, and Zhivago’s insurgent
          guerrillas were winning.

                             -Duncan White, Cold Warriors:
                    Writers Who Waged the Literary Cold war

What books will America purge this week -
What childhood adventures, what scholarly works
What entertainments of an idle hour
Will be forbidden to us in this Land of the Free?

We pray that nations blessed with liberty
Will smuggle books to us, stories and poems
With innocent ideas that give delight
And in their innocence threaten tyrants

What books will America purge this week –
And when did we become afraid of ideas?
A poem is itself.
ConnectHook Mar 2021
The last and dreadful day has come
The trumpet loudly sounds
The sleeping millions in the earth
Rise from the quaking ground!

O fearful sight! Where can I hide ?
What doleful wails I hear !
The moon turns now to ****** red,
The stars fall from their sphere !
The isles and mountains flee away,
The sun – it will not shine.
My eyes behold Christ Jesus come,
To judge the works of time !
No place to hide!

I care not now what people think
Or if they hear my cries.
My money and my pleasures, too,
Have vanished with my pride.
Down on my knees I fall, and then
Confessing Christ as “Lord of all”  –
I have no stubborn, proud heart now,
O hear the Great Judge call!
Too late to pray!

My sins are trailing my poor soul
Up to the throne of God.
Why do they follow, even here?
They will not pass His Word !
With piercing look, He views my works,
There’s nothing I can hide.
Where is one of my earthly friends?
Come! Stand here by my side!
No, now I stand ALONE!

I glance at Him, the Righteous Judge,
He says, “Depart from Me”!
I drop into the fiery pit
For all ETERNITY!
God! Give me just ONE moment now
Of time! Please hear my cry!
(Despairing thought-
‘Twas I who chose To EVER, EVER DIE!)
No more hope!

A thousand tongues could ne’er describe
The anguish that I feel,
Too late, too late now to repent,
Hell fire is all too REAL!
Forever now while ages roll,
My soul shall scream and burn.
Though torment reigns, my mind is clear –
In life, God’s love I spurned.
Forever doomed!

No water here, no light, no rest,
No love, no joy, no friend,
No children dear, no cheering song,
No hope my fate will end.
Writhing in flames, pain racks my soul,
And piercing cries I hear.
My wretched soul God sees it not –
‘Tis more than I can bear! Forgotten eternally!

Dear friend, today a loving Lord
Would save you from this fate.
Come humbly now, accept His grace
Before it is too late!


                                                 (Author unknown)
courtesy of: e-menno.org
ConnectHook Mar 2021
☩ ☩ ☩

If you think

That Haile Selassie

is the Living God of scripture

you are WAY too high

and I and I and I and I . . .
Rasta stop babbling and get SAVED
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MwGoMEo5rIw
ConnectHook Mar 2021
Un neurótico

se une

con una erótica
Pithy aphorism for your erudite perusal, señores y señoras
Favor de decirme si se lo lee bien en español o no
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