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11h · 37
Fork Spoonerism!
Amidst a merging of insurgencies
was a surging of emergencies.

The ineluctable conclusion:

unelectable condition of the candidates
was due to unconditional election of God’s chosen.
The Reformed view of election, known as unconditional election, means that God does not foresee an action or condition on our part that induces Him to save us. Rather, election rests on God’s sovereign decision to save whomever He is pleased to save.

In the book of Romans, we find a discussion of this difficult concept. Romans 9:10–13 reads: “And not only so, but also when Rebekah had conceived children by one man, our forefather Isaac, though they were not yet born and had done nothing either good or bad—in order that God’s purpose of election might continue, not because of works but because of him who calls—she was told, ‘The older will serve the younger.’ As it is written, ‘Jacob I loved, but Esau I hated.’” Here the Apostle Paul is giving his exposition of the doctrine of election. He deals with it significantly in Romans 8, but here he illustrates his teaching of the doctrine of election by going back into the past of the Jewish people and looking at the circumstances surrounding the birth of twins—Jacob and Esau. In the ancient world, it was customary for the firstborn son to receive the inheritance or the patriarchal blessing. However, in the case of these twins, God reversed the process and gave the blessing not to the elder but to the younger. The point that the Apostle labors here is that God not only makes this decision prior to the twins’ births, He does it without a view to anything they would do, either good or evil, so that the purposes of God might stand. Therefore, our salvation does not rest on us; it rests solely on the gracious, sovereign decision of God.
5d · 109
Benison of Venison
Head in the deer-lights.
Light in the deer-heads.
Deer in the light-heads.

(something like that)
That guy with antlers.

I mean MANTLERS, sorry.

https://youtu.be/6YK1CXA2TEE
May 14 · 97
Pluralidades
ConnectHook May 14
En nuestras ciudades
Diversidades
De perversidades

Fraternidades
En fealdades

Localidades
De barbaridades

Multiplicidades
De mortalidades
Sin piedades

Desigualdades
De enfermedades

Edades
De maldades.
Ai mek for ju un poem en esponeesh
May 7 · 56
Valhalla Hella Haiku
ConnectHook May 7
The final battle . . .
***** vikings overeat:
"Smörgåsbordgasm"
Coining a new word
ConnectHook May 1
But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
      Else of our ***, why feigned they those nine
      And poesy made Calliope’s own child
?
                                                    An­ne Bradstreet

Huntress, fill my pleading glass !
Let this marksman’s blood be merry.
Whether we shoot hind or ***,
Hail our wet preliminary.

   Having brought to birth such brave quadruplets,
   Let us toast the midwife with our couplets.

Sweet Diana pours her rounds:
Tawny Port and Shooting Sherry.
Hares now flee the baying hounds
For their country sanctuary.

   Thine the night, oh bright and savage huntress;
   Lead us to the quarry, chaste Artemis.

Conejito, hide yourself
From the charging adversary
Who would change your pelt for pelf;
(All close shaves are cautionary).

   Forgive our clanging gong and sounding brass;
   They serve to drive the quarry from the grass.

Healing balm: such sporting frolic,
Dares us to stay sedentary;
Banishing our melancholic
State, her bright apothecary!

   Wild huntress, let us know you as the Greeks
   And quiver as our heart your arrow seeks.

Toast we now the careless hunt;
Spoonerists wax luminary.
Visions of the hairless ****
Make my lay discretionary.
Allegory of DIANA, Goddess of the Hunt
https://tinyurl.com/y99k4hlg
Apr 30 · 47
Cat Nip Don't Nap
ConnectHook Apr 30
My cat WOKE:
Petra Electra Perpetua.

I’m telling y’all, she massive woke;
lit, like wicked wick holy smoke.

She outsmart Christopher ******* dreamin’
teach a dog where a BONE at,
discern every demon,
(not to mention advanced forensics.)

She rise, she yawn, she stretch, she flex
then start cashin’ every other pet paychecks.

She charge per minute just to LOOK at her fur
while she sharpen her nails. My Petra purr . . .

Dogs be all: WOOF
She don’t even answer.
Scribe rhymed Arabic lyrics
while she beat a belly dancer
with her TAIL, pfffffft. . .

My girl don’t tag, she SPRAY.
Mark every wall, y’all . . .
Seen all over the hood, gnome sain?

Offer her Sheba, she like:
Won’t touch it. Give me that Meow Mix.

My girl teach Afrikan lioness about *****;
*** on a paean, droppin’ lyrics like mice
other feline get fussy
my kitty get NICE.

TikTok your Instagram feed
right into her bowl.

My girl so woke,
save her own fanged soul.

Slip out the house—she gone.
Workin’ secret route to EGYPT.
Roast every priestess in Bastet city;

My kitty taught CLEOPATRA (u feel me?)
about *****.

She scratch Catwoman, pounce on Robin
Batman wet his weak-*** mask, sobbin’.

My girl woke;
so woke she don’t nap, she sleep—

profoundly. Soundly. DEEP.
PROMPT #29:
write a paean to your pet.

Christopher Smart referenced
Apr 28 · 38
Möbiustripshow
ConnectHook Apr 28
pre-Genesis,
she adumbrates in artifice
as you orate, then hesitate
before the portal of unnamed being
reconnoitering.

You gather your forces
to exploit her resources
aroma of Soma:
illimitable subliminal bliss
limned in liquescent lucidity. . .

Tantric hat-trick:
pull a white dove out of the universal yoni
when her lingam penetrates your third eye
your chakras align and you hit her cosmic jackpot:
all sevens in unknown Proto-Indo-European tongues.

The apsaras invite all the devis over
for Christmas in Jerusalem
Pangea cracks, spreads apart in differentiation;
incontinent continents drift
then recombine
in individuation . . .

Your anima gets an enema
as the Beast melts down
and the heavens descend.

Then clean it all up
and look for a beer in the cosmic fridge.
Visuals here:
https://connecthook.net/2020/04/28/mobiustripshow/
Apr 27 · 52
Abram the Hebrew
ConnectHook Apr 27
Mammonite pretender, see the Khazar:
Out of place in the Biblical bazaar;
Fattening his financial calf of gold
Maintaining clueless goyim bought and sold
.

Abram the nomad mixed milk with his meat
Walked the Fertile Crescent on his own feet;
Summoned from the Chaldees, uncircumcised
Long before that temple was realized.
From Babylon to Egypt, passing through,
Jerusalem came briefly into view.
He lived. He walked right out of the Archaic
To shatter every legalist’s mosaic.
Beholding now God’s current Middle East,
(Collective funeral more than wedding feast)
The Bedouin seem to model more the way:
hospitable intents at close of day.

Four hundred years would pass before they saw
That wilderness of Sinai and the Law;
Commandments Moses knew could never save.
We judge them by accounts their Torah gave:
Twelve generations later . . . what a joke.
The righteousness consumed in holy smoke
As Israel descended, worse than Cain,
to civil wars on *****’s fruitless plain.
In Judges we behold the steep descent
Read well the signs. Be warned—and then repent.
A scene for every Judaistic dream:
Depravity is worse than it may seem.
Your concubine, dismembered at your door,
May light the shortened fuse of civil war.
He aquí la Santa Muerte. Adórala:
https://connecthook.net/2020/04/27/abram-the-hebrew/
ConnectHook Apr 26
The Weather is dull, all Flora, withered—
Into Poetry’s ruins snakes have slithered;
Customs forgotten, sick mammals slain.
Now vampires infect me: **** on the brain…

While Disney exports multicultural trash
The vatos and thugs burn the barrio to ash.
Yet my lovely muse lifts me above the crisis:
Revealing conspiracy as rational analysis;
In her shimmering shroud, she defies the fates.
My hometown nostalgia out-bunkers Bill Gates;
I look out my window. Joy turns to mass death:
Old love-letters blown on Corona-breath.

I hide unicorn carcasses from my daughter.
Instead, we read Exodus: angels, plagues, slaughter.
She’s too young to know what is sold in the street
Or whether Hondurans arrive on their feet
And if what they carry is bitter or sweet . . .
Our online Amazon: jungle or obituary?
Webster just shrugs. It’s not in his dictionary.
PROMPT #26:
fill out the following Almanac Questionnaire.
Use your responses as the basis for a poem.

Weather: dull
Flora: withered
Architecture: ruins
Customs: forgotten
Mammals/reptiles/fish: snakes and pangolins
Childhood dream: Dracula
Found on the Street: **** mags
Export: Disney
Graffiti: Chicano gangs
Lover: my muse
Conspiracy: rational analysis
Dress: shroud
Hometown memory: nostalgia
Notable person: BIll Gates
Outside your window, you find: joy
Today’s news headline: mass death
Scrap from a letter: thrown out
Animal from a myth: unicorn
Story read to children at night: Exodus
Walk three minutes down an alley and find: ******
You walk to the border and hear: scheming Hondurans
What you fear: consumerism
Picture on your city’s postcard: Noah Webster
Apr 22 · 95
Soured
ConnectHook Apr 22
Sociopath usurpers rise to the top
Floating above mere human resources:
Doubtful cream of a churned and churning crop
Soulless spawn of data-driven forces.

I long to see them finally confounded;
I’ll laugh as they leap from towering losses
Their assets seized, liquefied, impounded . . .
May God repay our sociopath bosses!
Major Arcana card 16: The Tower

https://connecthook.net/2020/04/22/soured/

PROMPT #22: use an idiomatic phrase
as the jumping-off point for your poem.
(The cream of the crop…)
Apr 22 · 35
Estrofas Duchampescas
ConnectHook Apr 22
Para recoger las horas perdidas
hay que coger las zorras perdidas . . .
Today's NaPoWriMo prompt was so silly I had to ignore it.
Apr 21 · 68
Handmaiden of the Lord
ConnectHook Apr 21
Eternal salvation’s a gift

From a righteous young maid in a shift

Who had never been laid;

By God’s Spirit: hand-made

was her baby, our burdens to lift.
PROMPT #20: write a poem about a handmade gift that you have received.

I spent this afternoon watching SHE (1965 Hammer version) with my daughter because I was dreading trying to rise to the challenge of this prompt. I wound up with a half-baked limerick based on Luke 1:37, 38
"For with God nothing shall be impossible.
And Mary said,
Behold the handmaid of the Lord;
be it unto me according to thy word.
And the angel departed from her."
Apr 17 · 56
Lady from J
ConnectHook Apr 17
§§§

You speak eloquently

calmly, liltingly,

With West Indian precision.

Your island inflection

Is so lovely. Talk to me

About anything . . .

I could listen all day.

Let us resume the conversation

In Heaven.

Unto eternity . . .

Where we shall be perfected.

I can’t forget your voice.
PROMPT # 16: Pick a person, place, or thing you love, and praise it in the most effusive way you can.
Apr 16 · 39
Medieval Mystic
ConnectHook Apr 16
Patricians have our best interests in mind.
Administration is impartial, kind.
Keeps us laughin’, keeps us singin’—
And I’m Hildegard of Bingen.

She gets it like she gets the working class;
My head is nodding, up my Marxist ***.
White woke wedding bells are ringin’
Happy Hildegard of Bingen.

Government will gladly redistribute.
As our paychecks sing eternal tribute.
Gangsta-leanin, frontin’, blingin:
Chill with Hildegard of Bingen.

Icecaps, like medieval saints, are HOT.
Climate is in crisis when it’s not . . .
Global warning: winter’s springin’
Heating Hildegard of Bingen.

Intersectionality has meaning.
Hormones lie, biology’s demeaning .
Genderfluid queens are kingin’
Checkmate, Hildegard of Bingen.

Transnationals are cleaning up the mess;
Their CEO’s have little to confess.
Silver in the till, ka-chingin’
Profits Hildegard of Bingen.

Hildegard, the Moorish maiden, lauded.
Wokeness smiled. Diversity applauded.
Flames ascend and seraphim are wingin’
To the throne of Hildegard of Bingen.
Prompt #15: write a poem inspired by your favorite kind of music.
That could mean incorporating refrains, neologisms and flights of
whimsy, or repeating/inverting lines or ideas –
whatever your chosen musical form would seem to require!
Apr 14 · 66
Vargas Girl
ConnectHook Apr 14
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down

                                                           ­                    John Lennon

A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked *****
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.

Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:

Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, ***** and tumefaction.

Laurie Vargas, mouth full of ***,
Spread for us now your Aztec ***
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your ******* eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other *****
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . .
Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)

I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless *****-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.

An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own ***.
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)

Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When *** has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?

I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame.
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.
Laurie Vargas was born in 1983
in Los Angeles, California, as Ruth Ayon.
(Some sources indicate Guadalajara Mexico as her birthplace)

Visit her terrible glory:
https://connecthook.net/2020/04/14/vargas-girl/
Apr 13 · 658
Anti-Viral Triolet
ConnectHook Apr 13
It’s Easter in Coronaland;

The empty malls hold silent air.

There’s paranoia on demand

For Easter in Coronaland.

The baby chickens make their stand;

And pastel rabbit eggs declare:

It’s Easter in Coronaland

In empty malls of silent air.
PROMPT 12: write a triolet.
These eight-line poems involve repeating lines and a rhyme scheme.

Seriously, I think I have written WAY better stuff than this.
It was a completely formulaic write in response to the prompt...
But this Triolet is getting read and the others are barely getting 15 reads per day.
One thing about HP, it surprises one to find out what poetry others pay attention to. It is very counter-intuitive.
I think my recent *****-poem is much better poetically (?)
Apr 12 · 274
Petal to the Metal
ConnectHook Apr 12
> < > < > < > < > < > < > <

A White Rose said to an African Violet:

Purple darkness makes my day.

The Violet, showing forth her petals, spoke:

Let’s share some sun, okay?
PROMPT #11:
Write a poem in which one or more flowers take on specific meanings.

I didn't blow off the prompt.
I have discharged my poetic duty.
Apr 11 · 88
Definedly Poetic
ConnectHook Apr 11
Poetry is the message, not the way it gets conveyed (SNIFF)
Do NOT make it your own (SNORT)
It’s not about saying it in a new way (HICCUP)
It’s all about a message delivered lyrically (BURP/BELCH)
Poetry is NOT about emotions recollected in tranquility (****)
Poetry is not about pushing the boundaries of language (YAWN)
Nor is it spasmodic unburdening (AHH—CHOO!)
Poetry has no militant agenda (GRUNT)
and Poetry is not about your prosaic observations (SIGH)

          LET’S GET THAT STRAIGHT !
I also blew off yesterday's Ntl. Poetry prompt in order to make an absolute and binding global decree regarding the definition of poetry. Have fun with that.

Love, ME
ConnectHook Apr 10
Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.

Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** *******.
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
is opened yet again by blade for child.

From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
to those who dwell in bio-****** night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.

Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings
.)
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=r8lV1z4zy7g&feature=youtu.be
Apr 9 · 40
Miss Anthropology
ConnectHook Apr 9
Margaret Mead was full of it:
Boas’ unconstricted student
Half-baked matron lost at sea
Nurturing unnatural views
South-sea natives yanked her chain
Giggling maidens told her lies
On her bookish South-Sea cruise
Trying to flee her own neurosis
Frumpy methodology
Interjected Western bias
Greening grasses far from home
Theorizing Love, unfree
(Maslow’s ****** pyramid scheme
Fitting tomb for wrong assumptions)
Titillating dull patricians
High on **** kava-kava
Margaret Mead was full of it.
Blew off the prompt on this one . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJjHrVr_-PQ&feature=youtu.be
Apr 9 · 26
Journalistic Yawn
ConnectHook Apr 9
The nuanced global metrosexuality
of the NYT,
the progressive patrician narcissism
of New Yorker,
The dark democratic dying
of the Washington Post,
the salty smugness
of Atlantic,
the effete unstrung irrelevance
of Harpers . . .
Newsweek, Time,
even Life itself:
These are passing away.
PROMPT #7:  a poem based on a news article
Apr 8 · 46
Bosched Limerick
ConnectHook Apr 8
In the garden of earthly delights

A disturbing assortment of sights;

From sublime… to more ominous,

Holy Hieronymous

Painted abysses and heights.
PROMPT #6: a poem from the point of view of a person from Bosch’s triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights
Apr 6 · 43
Fowl Feminanity
ConnectHook Apr 6
The chicken coop unmanned, adrift at sea
Rolls aimlessly upon hormonal swells.
Her crew, well-versed in gynecology
Repaint in pink dull feminism's hells.
Such lunacy as ovulates their womb
Impels them now to celebrate our doom.

First freed from God, then finally, from men,
The silly sailors, decked like women's parts
Scold gender's greater half, like hens, and then
Cluck on, devoid of biologic arts;
Useless fowl, squawking fit to neuter us
Who dare exist without a ******.
PROMPT #5: incorporate a whole bunch of things into a metaphoric poem

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNirBt-qMAk&feature=emb_title
Apr 5 · 42
Hard Questions
ConnectHook Apr 5
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree . . .


                                               Coleridge:­ Kubla Khan


Sheba’s ghost, lamenting, wails for Yemen:

Her incense trees are lacerated, scarred.

Sapped for their fragrance, drained of life and marred . . .

Their smoking blood offered up to heaven.

No sinuous rills flow forth to bless the dead;

Beneath her ruined dam no gardens grow;

And Bedouins only sing of what they know

In wastelands of the nomad past. It’s said

That all those spices, all that golden smoke

and irrigated dreams beneath the sand

were just a subtle Solomonic joke.

The yearly weight of gold, the camel-trains,

Are cryptic numbers—chanted in refrains

That only Marib’s phantoms understand.
Day 4 prompt: write a poem inspired by a dream

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20Kings%2010%3A14&version=KJV;NIV
Apr 5 · 35
Blind Date
ConnectHook Apr 5
Frumptart meets Trumptard: it’s bliss forever!

Rainbow twins make pink Indian Summer . . .

Poke your hontas, indigenous lover,

Till Twitter-dumb gets Twittering-dumber.

Having had my fill of a noxious brew

(Militant Marxist Genderqueer free verse),

My soul now seeks a less venomous view:

Write more poetry!  Dispel this global curse.
Can't remember what the lame-*** prompt was...
Apr 3 · 65
Nicean Barks
ConnectHook Apr 3
☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

                                                  E.A. Poe


Such transports as true poetry provides

In raptures of the soul, and lyric rides,

May carry one beyond the lofty heights

In chariots of sun on drunken nights.

Whether true odyssey or shorter trip,

Homeric craft or humbler sort of ship,

The poet’s chosen stowaway rides free;

The ticket paid for literarily.

And afterward, the traveler comes home

Enriched by distant sights and worlds unknown.
PROMPT #2: write a poem about a specific place —
a particular house or store or school or office.
Try to incorporate concrete details, like street names, distances, types of trees or flowers, color of the shirts on people there.

By the trash-strewn brook of sewage
midst plastic bags snagged on bushes
below the rusting bridge of Calle Nueva
tropic flowers bloom in rotten muck.

Past the bridge three blocks up
on Calle Comercio
Schoolchildren come and go
dark blue uniforms buttoned down
in the Latin sun.

Pastel guayaberas and frilled aprons pass. . .
street vendors cry out their wares,
baskets of abundance head-borne
while car-horns blare cacophony.

There, in pharmaceutical shade,
the pedestrian is welcomed into
Farmacia Carcache —

                                          FORGET IT. I can’t do this.

(seriously some of the NaPo prompts are so lame)
Apr 2 · 62
Paths to Pathos
ConnectHook Apr 2
*

Poets:  a pathetic lot—

Who sing, off-key, of their own refusing.

On a quest for what is not,

Entranced with their own maudlin musing

In that zone where life gets buffered

As the pages load; confusing

Pain with what their souls have suffered:

Lyric bombs for your defusing.
30 poems in 30 days: NaPoWriMo

https://connecthook.net/
ConnectHook Apr 2
Plumed Serpent/Fabled Phoenix/Rare Black Swan:
Let Poetry now shoot you from the sky;
Your sin, though trendy, shall no more rage on . . .
They’ll see you’re just a Dodo by and by.

You puffed and fanned, a dazzling Peacock Star
It’s high time you descended here to earth.
We see you for the Emu that you are:
Your gender, like your ***—assigned at birth.
PROMPT: write a poem about your favorite bird
Dang. This is one of my best. But you fickle readers don't see it. Sigh...
Mar 31 · 394
April: La Coronada
ConnectHook Mar 31
Huddled in your castles like Prospero’s doomed revelers, sighing in the springtime of contagion, you evade and avoid the obvious. But the Muse has entered, unseen, and stands among you in her mask of elegiac splendor. She smiles as you mock her presence. She laughs quietly to herself as her influence wafts upon the very air, inspiring and infecting all concerned. You try to protect yourselves from the lyric epidemic, nonetheless her viral poetic molecules go forth, regroup, mutate, and attach themselves to the souls of her detractors. Her spores hang upon the very droplets of the mist, a suspended Parnassian miasma. The first tremors of poetic sickness begin to shudder deep within and among the most reluctant revelers. They try to dispel their fears; they brag and congratulate themselves, chattering about the uselessness of poetry, listing all they ways in which they have successfully barricaded themselves from her pestilential presence. But the Muse has entered and none can ensure her departure. Poetry will have her way and resistance is futile. Some will survive, but others will meet her as their avenging angel of the plague, and neither Egyptian magic nor sanitizing legerdemain shall deter the blossoming vector of her influence. Fear, oh unpoetic readers, this sudden lyrical acceleration, this verdant celebration:

               our poetic coronation.
Just an amusing little ditty for NaPoWriMo 2020

y'all come on over!    https://connecthook.net/
Mar 25 · 254
Social Distance Limerick
ConnectHook Mar 25
Got to sleep in a old holler log
With my rifle, my pipe and my dog.
As you city-folk know,
She's a hard row to ***;
Dang Corona done slaughtered ma hog.
Hey there y’all.
Jest thought I would tell you what I been up to during this old LOCKDOWN by the dang federals and globalists and teknocrats. Due to Satan, China, and George Soros inflicting this scourge upon our beloved nation, I done had to stay hunkered down in muh cabin with muh fambly. CHINESE  Chest Cold all it is, and I don’t care what the One World Guvermint says, I AINT EATIN’ no BATS. **** ****** Chinese need JESUS I’ll tell you that. Now whar wuz I? Oh yeah:

We pretty much been prayin’ non-stop to the Lord, readin’ our Bibles and listenin’ to daddy Donald on the short-wave television. He shore is smart and we thank God Almighty for him AND his wife what’s-her-name. (She’s real pretty—for a Yuropean that is  . . .) And lucky for us he come up with a good plan to help us all overcome this great tribulation of the Last Days, amen. Presidint Trump is going to take that old W.H.O. down a peg or two. And all them thankless adversaries runnin’ their jaws a-complainin’ all day long kin go figger.  Anyway, we sit around a lot . . . muh wife bakes some cornpone . . . we fry a little bacon any old time. Muh kids play and squabble and ask to borry muh tablet (y’all know how it is) but I cain’t say it’s been easy. I have touched a drop (well perhaps a half jug) of corn likker, and although I am shamed to say, I have done beat muh dear wife somewhat (but never in front of the little ones and only when she sassed me).

Well, the good news from all these trials and tribulations is:
National Poetry Writing Month is comin’ along real SOON in April! You might not have thunk a ol’ deeplorable hillbilly like me would appreciate POETRY now would you? I hope the president can *** everthang on track for all of us soon and we kin all *** back to writin’ POEMS in the springtime.

And after the summer gits over we can drag our ol’ knuckles over to the votin’ station and cast our ballots, yes siree.

So that’s how it been here in Hickry Holler tryin’ (as the city slickers and federal agents like to call it) SOCIALLY DISTANCEing our pore selfs from everthang. I hope you folks is doin’ rightly and see you soon Lord willing.
Mar 13 · 115
Viral Haiku
ConnectHook Mar 13
A celebration . . .
The plague’s acceleration:
Our coronation!
Crown us with many crowns
(Read Psalm 91)
Feb 29 · 157
Vile Limerick
ConnectHook Feb 29
Human beings, like poets, lack dignity.
Ever subject to Satan's malignity . . .
People **** and then wipe
While they think, as they type,
That they're full of pure lyric sublimity.
I was feeling negative. Sorry.
Feb 26 · 53
Evolutionary Limericks
ConnectHook Feb 26
The annual Darwin Gay Ball
Was a gala occasion for all.
The Australopithecus
looked quite ridiculous
Leaning, half-drunk, on the wall.

Zinjanthropus, high on bananas
Uttered forth a long chain of Hosannas.
Although missing a link,
He knew just what to think
And went cruising for greener savannas.

The Cro-Magnons (more agile than Lucy)
Like their hunting and gathering juicy.
The mating was prime
And their dance, so sublime,
could out-monkey the funky Watusi.

Twas a lowbrow event; all the same,
Proto-drag-queens competed for fame.
The divine **** Habilis,
Hairy, but fabulous,
Gave Knuckle-Dragging its name.

**** Sapiens' wisdom has wrecked us
As the Darwinist doctrines infect us.
Knuckle-draggers may dream,
But bonobos now scream
That the winner is: **** Erectus!
http://realhistoryww.com/world_history/ancient/Homo_habilis_erectus_neanderthal.htm
Feb 24 · 86
Clarion Calls
ConnectHook Feb 24
It's OK to be WOKE.
It's not right to be WRONG.
Appropriate intersectionality!
Occupy cis-gender privilege!
Believe unbelievers!
Wake the wokeness in women!
Hands OFF my body politic!
Celebrate maximized Matriarchy
by radicalizing pronoun polarization.
Revoke Whiteness by darking the brightness.
Empower the margins for doodling
instead of scribbling.
It's about disembarking
from Patriarchy's leaking ark
It's about politicizing polyandry
It's about re-peeling the orange
to freeze the debt ceiling
NO MORE free Cheetos: Truck Fump !
NO MORE empty sloganeering
NO MORE mindless cheering
Create your own unreality NOW !
Islam is right about women.
Clarion VS. Carrion
Feb 17 · 58
I used to write
ConnectHook Feb 17
I used to write
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is about race-grievances
and identity-mongering,
speaking with a country drawl
unveiling a *******-*** flag
or letting the words pound like metal
into the brains of brothers
who will never understand
and vote for Trump.
But, I’ve spent my life as a white boy
a part oriental, straight-haired,
thin-lipped,
small-***** White boy
and the poem will surely come out right
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone misinterpreting.

If I could be a gun-owning patriot
with concealed carry,
someone’s Ken doll and Clint Eastwood,
I’d be poetry in motion
without shooting a round
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were militant, I could be peaceful and mad
instead of an evil, pouting confederate general
a *******, passed over
crumbled and passed over,
a *******
crumbled in the bushes.

My father tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be black like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my skin-lightener.
She didn’t tell me I was racist
(so my face wouldn’t swell up).

White boys cannot afford to
have delusions of Afrocentrism,
not drumming, singing off-key,
dry and rigid White boys.

And even though in Amerikkka
I was mistaken for someone’s professor or landlord
or policeman down south,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my hair straight,
proud,
ever to care
that those people who denigrate
the popular brand of diversity
don’t feel me,
it still shatters.

Looking through a window, it shatters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone dark gets that
“he ain’t no NBA star” expression
it shatters.

But it’s not so sad now.
I can cry about it,
Shoot hoops and write poems
about all those lay-ups,
my age and shading.
I’m through waiting for hope and change,
the 80’s didn’t throw me a bone
and as many years as I’ve been
White like Ivory
White like the clouds
I have seen in the water
and the sights of my brothers
that ugly is the man in light
who withers with hating.


An adjusted rewrite.
Homage to Bill de Blasio's wife, poetess and mental-health rights reformer Chirlane McCray

I used to think
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is being everything you can be
in one moment,
speaking with lightning protest
unveiling a fiery intellect
or letting the words drift feather-soft
into the ears of strangers
who will suddenly understand
my beautiful and tortured soul.
But, I’ve spent my life as a Black girl
a *****-headed, no-haired,
fat-lipped,
big-bottomed Black girl
and the poem will surely come out wrong
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone looking at me.

If I could be a cream-colored lovely
with gypsy curls,
someone’s pecan dream and sweet sensation,
I’d be poetry in motion
without saying a word
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were beautiful, I could be angry and cute
instead of an evil, pouting mammy *****
a ****** woman, passed over
conquested and passed over,
a ****** woman
to do it to in the bushes.

My mother tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be light like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my color.
She didn’t tell me I was pretty
(so my head wouldn’t swell up).

Black girls cannot afford to
have illusions of grandeur,
not ***-kicking, too-loud-laughing,
mean and loose Black girls.

And even though in Afrika
I was mistaken for someone’s fine sister or cousin
or neighbor down the way,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my head down,
ashamed,
never to care
that those people who celebrate
the popular brand of beauty
don’t see me,
it still matters.

Looking for a job, it matters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone light gets that
“she ain’t nothin come home with me” expression
it matters.

But it’s not so bad now.
I can laugh about it,
trade stories and write poems
about all those put-downs,
my rage and hiding.
I’m through waiting for minds to change,
the 60’s didn’t put me on a throne
and as many years as I’ve been
Black like ebony
Black like the night
I have seen in the mirror
and the eyes of my sisters
that pretty is the woman in darkness
who flowers with loving.

©1983 Chirlane McCray
Feb 13 · 78
I used to think
ConnectHook Feb 13
Chirlane McCray   (b. 1954)

I used to think
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is being everything you can be
in one moment,
speaking with lightning protest
unveiling a fiery intellect
or letting the words drift feather-soft
into the ears of strangers
who will suddenly understand
my beautiful and tortured soul.
But, I’ve spent my life as a Black girl
a *****-headed, no-haired,
fat-lipped,
big-bottomed Black girl
and the poem will surely come out wrong
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone looking at me.

If I could be a cream-colored lovely
with gypsy curls,
someone’s pecan dream and sweet sensation,
I’d be poetry in motion
without saying a word
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were beautiful, I could be angry and cute
instead of an evil, pouting mammy *****
a ****** woman, passed over
conquested and passed over,
a ****** woman
to do it to in the bushes.

My mother tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be light like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my color.
She didn’t tell me I was pretty
(so my head wouldn’t swell up).

Black girls cannot afford to
have illusions of grandeur,
not ***-kicking, too-loud-laughing,
mean and loose Black girls.

And even though in Afrika
I was mistaken for someone’s fine sister or cousin
or neighbor down the way,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my head down,
ashamed,
never to care
that those people who celebrate
the popular brand of beauty
don’t see me,
it still matters.

Looking for a job, it matters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone light gets that
“she ain’t nothin come home with me” expression
it matters.

But it’s not so bad now.
I can laugh about it,
trade stories and write poems
about all those put-downs,
my rage and hiding.
I’m through waiting for minds to change,
the 60’s didn’t put me on a throne
and as many years as I’ve been
Black like ebony
Black like the night
I have seen in the mirror
and the eyes of my sisters
that pretty is the woman in darkness
who flowers with loving.

©1983 Chirlane McCray
McCray cites […] early experience with racism and bullying as part of the reason she began to write, using her poetry as an outlet for her anger. She also wrote a column for her school newspaper, in which she denounced classmates for their racism.
McCray enrolled at Wellesley College in 1972. While studying at Wellesley, McCray became a member of the Combahee River Collective, a black feminist lesbian organization, which inspired her to write prose and poetry.

(source: AAE Speakers)
Feb 6 · 85
play on
ConnectHook Feb 6
the DJ wuz playin
the haterz wuz hatin

the kulture wuz dyin
the addicts wuz buyin

the lovers wuz sighin
the media lyin
Hatin prounounced "hay-in"
Feb 3 · 241
E.U. Haiku
ConnectHook Feb 3
Celebrate BREXIT !
Nanny-state tries to flex it . . . .
Nigel F. wrecks it.
Nigel Farage rocks !
I like Boris too.
Feb 3 · 138
Versos dorados
ConnectHook Feb 3
La exploradora
Adora
Su vibradora.
Zumba
Como víbora
Pero de manera
Consoladora
Confines
Sexplotadoras
Inspirado por la famosa Dora y su mono
ConnectHook Jan 30
♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡   

As I walked out one evening,

   Walking down Bristol Street,

The crowds upon the pavement

   Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river

   I heard a lover sing

Under an arch of the railway:

   ‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you

   Till China and Africa meet,

And the river jumps over the mountain

   And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean

   Is folded and hung up to dry

And the seven stars go squawking

   Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,

   For in my arms I hold

The Flower of the Ages,

   And the first love of the world.’

But all the clocks in the city

   Began to whirr and chime:

‘O let not Time deceive you,

   You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare

   Where Justice naked is,

Time watches from the shadow

   And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry

   Vaguely life leaks away,

And Time will have his fancy

   To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley

   Drifts the appalling snow;

Time breaks the threaded dances

   And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,

   Plunge them in up to the wrist;

Stare, stare in the basin

   And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,

   The desert sighs in the bed,

And the crack in the tea-cup opens

   A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes

   And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,

And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,

   And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,

   O look in your distress:

Life remains a blessing

   Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window

   As the tears scald and start;

You shall love your crooked neighbour

   With your crooked heart.’

It was late, late in the evening,

   The lovers they were gone;

The clocks had ceased their chiming,

   And the deep river ran on.




W.H. Auden  (1907-1973)
This poem is one of the reasons
for my love of poetry:

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2013/07/31/w-h-auden-walks-out/
Jan 26 · 148
Global Scoldings
ConnectHook Jan 26
From some random adolescent zealot:
Troubled children are the ones to sell it.
How DARE you read my couplet.
Jan 5 · 147
Shiite Haiku
ConnectHook Jan 5
Medo-Persia smacked!
Hornets' nest is buzzing now.
Don't believe the hype...

MSM: just die!
We don't need the Fake News spin.
Reality's here.
Rachel Maddow can wipe my ***.
NeoCon Chickenhawks wrote Plan for New American Century.
Google it, clueless fool.
Dec 2019 · 127
Do What Thou Art
ConnectHook Dec 2019
Those pervy bros Podesta:
Collector's breed apart;
Both share a nasty interest
In a type of sordid art;

Depicting painted victims,
***** kids in disarray;
Their taste projects the symptoms
Of what their souls display.

Such themes as fill their mansions
And cloistered halls of power
Reveal some dark delusions
And what they would devour.

Our capital's elitists
Show plainly what they are
The price of their admission
Won't get them very far.
A little ditty inspired by Soul Survivor's most recent poem.
Thanks C.J. ♥

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USbDK4w3PMg
Dec 2019 · 131
Alternative Couplets
ConnectHook Dec 2019
Virtue-signalers mocked
hens half-cocked

Gender twisted
whites blacklisted

Identity politicized
tradition despised

Patriots shamed
Trump blamed

Bards bested
poetasters tested
Your right to free speech ends
when my hurt feelings begin.
ConnectHook Dec 2019
Ejte no ej patol
polque 'ta fumando
un cigajillo
en su cajo.

¿Patol?
Pol favol . . .
Hay que enviar más letras “RR” a Puelto Jico
Dec 2019 · 296
A list
ConnectHook Dec 2019
Jimmy Savile
Edward Heath
Ghislaine Maxwell
Dennis Hastert
Jeffrey Epstein
William Clinton
Harvey Weinstein
Alpha apex
First letter of the law
Cornerstone and capstone
Novus Ordo Unum Eye . . .

Have a nice conspiracy theory.
That ol’ letter ***
Nov 2019 · 387
Blow This
ConnectHook Nov 2019
I wet the whistle first, then blow
(my algorithm will let you know—)

And then my bot will rob you blind
in the name of humankind.

Which means there exist no more than two genders;
both of them are Truth's defenders . . .

and Eric Ciaramella didn't **** himself.
Did someone mention Effrey Jepstein?
Nov 2019 · 75
Demonstration of Limerick
ConnectHook Nov 2019
If your wisdom is known by your chants,
The Red Rage loses all its romance.
Those ******* refrains
Preclude any real gains
From your dull dialectical dance.
Hey Hey ** **
No Trump / No KKK
Nazis Go Home, etc.

. . . YAWN.

Yes these last 3 years have been pure Fascism, I know. The jackboots of the evil overlord have been on your neck ever since 2016. Your rights have been utterly stripped away, those of you who weren't herded into the dissident death-camps by the Orange Oppressor. Hang in there. Absolute Hitlerian Evil must eventually come to an end, right? Until then, keep writing poems brothers and sisters ♥☺
Nov 2019 · 108
Whispered Ultimatums
ConnectHook Nov 2019
When patriots express their views
It trumps the deep-state network news,

Who call it this and call it that
Then spin it in their laundromat . . .

Apart from all they say and do,
Every conspiracy is true.

Take it easy. They'll implode slower.
Eric CIAramella is the whistleblower.
Conspiracy analysis: Isaiah 8:12-13
Nov 2019 · 117
Artimaña
ConnectHook Nov 2019
Porque él comió maní

Se levantó

en el manicomio
Por eso, en inglés se llama
"GOING NUTS"
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