Sworn to **** the Church (or at least forestall),
Reviling Jesus, Christians, and Saint Paul,
The Pharisees finally blow their cover.
Things in Rome are starting to boil over;
Vesuvian rumblings portend Pompeii . . .
Judah await their Messianic day—
       But Claudius plans to expel all Jews . . .

Hateful superstitions cloud their views:
Torah with Talmud their rabbis confuse.
Not-so-Abrahamic agitation
Fails again to unify the nation;
Waiting for Moses/Elijah/David
Some expectations are waxing fervid
       And Claudius moves to disperse the Jews.

Zionist riots make the nightly news
Every Roman synagogue now must choose:
Goyim government tells them to desist—
Caesar demands incense—and some resist.
For subversion (or just causing trouble)
Imperial power rewards them double.
       Meanwhile, Claudius expels the Jews.

Failing empire demands what saints refuse;
They wait for Babylon to pay her dues . . .
Forced to pack up and leave, all Israel flees.
No plagues, no Passover, no exit fees.
Like Lot, they had to leave in a hurry;
Enriched by God in interest, gold and worry.
       Now why would Claudius banish all the Jews?

Stand historically in Josephus’ shoes.
Rabbis babble on while Rome’s legions lose . . .
Empires die. It’s agonizingly slow.
You think it happened suddenly—but no.
In retrospect, not different from today.
And History will have the final say:
       Why then did Claudius expel the Jews?

I do not care to
interact
with chatbots.

What a fake poetry site....

I imagine a breath of celestial air;
I say I'll face the ground,
Afraid to see the Almighty.
But how?

If Jehovah is above and below,
Within and without,
Beside, behind, and before,
Everywhere at once...and more,
I'll have nothing in store:
No attitude, no posture,
No stumbling alibis...
No critical questions arise,
No time left to philosophize...

He sees me throughout;
He sees through my eyes;
He's in my thoughts;
He knows my truths...and lies.

I will attempt quietness
Though my mind rushes on;
He is here in tumult & solitude
Present in the garden and in the multitude.

Gertrude Stein, you unreadable *****;
Lie back in your sty and I’ll scratch your itch.
I’ll water your trough so you can swill
Vapid verbiage till you’ve had your fill.
Your abstract expressions, while short of profound,
Could almost drive me to Ezra Pound…
Roll over in hell. You’re a rambling twit.
I’m Alice B. Toklas-ed, and tired of it.
Roll over, I say. Let them roast you some more;
Demons agree—you’re a well-lettered BORE.

It's that moment
when the pieces
of the puzzle
all combine.

And you see a
glorious picture
that you doubted
that you'd find.

And then after
when the pieces
are inspected
each with care.

You see purpose
and see meaning
each too valuable
to spare.