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ConnectHook Apr 2018
Apr 28
Hi all !

Having a great time here in post-modern poetry.
We’ve been on the island since Sylvia Plath croaked in ’63.
It’s been a bit smoggy, incoherent  and gratuitously cryptic, but the prison-guards are super-nice and they let us write Haiku once in a while. There’s this MFA creative-writing place just up the road from the gulag, it’s really charming. They publish a chapbook that 4 people on the island read. They also host workshops, like How to Find Your Authentic Voice and Pushing Language Beyond the Boundaries. Last night we saw some non-identity-politics-driven verse in the nearby wilderness reserve. It had beautiful plumage and made totally weird sounds. (Hey Dylan, you’re remembering to feed my muse, right? Don’t let her out after 5 since she might stay out all night. She does NOT like the free-verse abstract work. Feed her the structured message-oriented stuff to the right of the editorial literary-elite. Thanks ☺ ) Anyway, we’re trapped on this island so if you find someway to get us off, do your best.
PLEEZ tell the editorial prison-guards that we are working on our English Lit MA degrees.
P.S: send the Maya Angelou and Adrienne Rich books soon !!!!!
                                                       Love,
                                                     ­     Rita Dove’s Bookshelf
PROMPT:   draft a prose poem
in the form/style of a postcard
Apr 2018 · 431
Auspicious Hexagram
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Upon receiving the propitious omen,
let the chamber be arrayed in crimson silk.
The ten thousand things rise and return to their essence.
The tapestries part to reveal Pearl-gate
when Tiger Breath combines with fire in active contemplation.
The Empress approaches Mountain Hermit
and the landscape flows with harmony.
The ten thousand things transmute to pure chi
when Jade Daughter receives rising force in harmonious arousal.
Before moment of Clouds-on-Jade-Mountain Peak,
the Empress' crucible overflows with yin.
Her alabaster chamber yields its treasure willingly
if tiger of Cloud-Mountain Forest does not take it by force,
when Moon-Gate is opened by stealth
in the shadow of Cloud-Mountain Temple.
Burger King french fries
are not as good as Wendy’s—
but when you’re hungry . . .
Apr 2018 · 487
Skin in the Game
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Circum/stances (slash) foregone
circumvent forebears
circus-schisms of the forefathers
circumferences foreordained . . .

Abrahamic inferences
Feminine foreclosures
Unfabulous infibulations
Equivocating equivalencies . . .

Childbearing foreborne
Preposterous paradigm
Gender agenda return to sender
Hebraic / Pharaonic / Moronic . . .

Abracadabra  
Presto change-o !
One must remain circumspect.
♥ ⚥⛧☭ ✪ ⚢ Ⓐ ❣ ⚧⚩✿ ⚤∅⚧


Haiku wants to say
something in five-seven-five
but now it’s over
Apr 2018 · 307
Synesthetics
ConnectHook Apr 2018
sent over neural pathways
the sight of a scent
could make one wax
transcendent:
Yankee Candle

budding one's tongue
the sound of a taste
may disturb the ears
aural astral waste;
Monosodium Glutamate

to feel the touch
of a sight beheld
might dazzle the senses
beyond defenses:
Tear Gas

Sin is apt
to skew such lapses.
Sin’s esthetic
glimpsed in apses
acts as anesthetic;
dulls our enhanced ecstatic senses:
a synthetic synaptic celestial deception . . .

Make sense?
prompt:  write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses. Try to be as concrete and exact as possible with the “feel” of what the poem invites the reader to see, smell, touch, taste and hear.
Apr 2018 · 427
Sinner Cities
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Behold your public funds at work:
Trash-strewn gutters, loitering thugs;
Sidewalk dancers start to twerk
While tattooed clowns deal circus drugs.

Social workers check the pulse
In clouds of menace: sick-sweet smoke.
The cities brain and guts convulse:
Mad laughter for an absent joke.

Such Godless faces, Christless souls
Whose gazes show malign defeat
Evoke dysfunction. On it rolls:
A harsh, reptilian urban beat.

The ghosts of absent fathers fade
In methadone . . . the guttural yells
Infect the *****-reeking shade
Of demons bound in welfare hells.

America—reduced to this.
Fragmented, begging for repair.
A vicious and unkind abyss
Beyond all hope and all despair.

I want to flee such streets of noise
Where fate is read in scraps of trash
When sirens urge the circus boys
To pocket their illicit cash.
The summer snow-flakes
rise gently in morning mist:
Your desert is vast.
Apr 2018 · 193
Rubble
ConnectHook Apr 2018
The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God
                                                          (P­salm 14)

As your tattoos fade and your piercings close
your slang becomes outmoded. So it goes.
Bliss and Ignorance must yield to Wisdom
Experience learns to suffer its Freedom.
Time accelerates, seasons quickly pass—
you realize that your head was up your ***
years on end, Reason lost to Vanity;
only God can restore the sanity.
Now the music sounds different, stupider;
low, less able to conceal Lucifer.
Your once-massive ego now lies humbled
in rubble where your defenses crumbled
edifice built upon your ignorance
of God, Evil, Life—and of Innocence.
Gradually, your soul awakened to death;
your pulse knows a limit, so does your breath.
yeah . . . purple tattoos
so you kinda look like old
USDA prime (?)
Apr 2018 · 1.0k
Nanny Nanny Boo Boo
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Endless scoldings from the Nanny
mean-face global fascist granny;
data-driven witch of woe
born of winter’s frigid flow.

Boys rebel in her dull school:
passive subversion of her rule.
Minds thus stagnate—shut down early
graduating sullen, surly;
unsure why they hate the world,
emasculated and begirled.
Oh snap! No Haiku.
Got to come up with one quick . . .
OK (breathe again)
Apr 2018 · 385
Abomination of Revelation
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Of fatal head-wounds, beasts, and kings
my holy muse, avenging, sings
and mocking, scorns
the ten kings’ horns
while greater wisdom brings.

Divide ten horns on seven heads;
numeric challenge overspreads . . .
Ten for seven ?
Thus does Heaven
plan to up your meds.

Seven candlesticks, vials of wrath
first lit, then poured, shall light your path
toward paradise;
and shall suffice
in holy aftermath.

Such Hebrew numerology:
an Antichrist apology.
No death in vain.
Those babies slain?
Pure semiology.

You come with true prophetic zeal
the Revelation to unseal;
and yet, I doubt
what you’re about . . .
you need a balanced meal.

Nutcase: extraordinary
measures may prove necessary.
Vitamin B
deficiency
turns you visionary.

Good supplements might help your brain
and God Himself perhaps might deign
to grant some light
and ease your plight
till truth and love remain.

Go, crack the Book. Let us resume
the cryptic parable of doom;
Saint John raving
(text worth saving)
lightens the End-Time gloom.

Voice of many waters’ thunder
barely startles . . . on we blunder.
Shut up and buy—
demystify
as barbarians plunder.

Of jeweled harlots, rising wars
and opening of infernal doors,
near-psychotic
occult logic
breeds the juggernaut spores.

Those seven churches, now long-gone,
return once more in light of dawn.
Prophetic ghosts
in ****** hosts
give birth: prophetic spawn.

The fabled fornication-wine,
unholy, though no less divine . . .
we drain the cup—
our time is up;
all hail the Lord’s design.

Archetypal memes of madness:
slaughtered saints revive with gladness
the slain lamb’s life
brings end to strife
and closure to our mess.  

Sharpen your dull Christology,
fanatic eschatology:
void of logic—
semiotic
misanthropology . . .  

Delta of the dark Euphrates:
something from the bowels of Hades
issues forth
to test the worth
of Babylon’s ladies.

Cool out, my brother. Close the book.
It’s not the end yet; take a look.
Glimpse the city—
what a pity . . .
omens have got you shook.

These frightening prophetic screeds
should urge you more toward Christian deeds;
not satanic
modes of panic,
but meeting human needs.

The predatory drones of war,
infernal technoids from the core
of smoking earth
are finally worth
their scrap—and little more.

A desert woman clothed with sun;
Abaddon’s legions on the run
as they retreat,
admit defeat:
the Devil’s doings, done.

The reign of Antichrist now ends
the host of heaven, triumphant, rends
satanic skies;
before our eyes
the Bride, adorned, descends.

And though my muse shall never quit,
her inspiration lags a bit;
apostates curse,
the world grows worse—
the Devil throws a fit.

Of beasts and fatal head-wounds healed
and wrathful angel’s scrolls unsealed
I’ve had enough,
and call God’s bluff:
Apocalypse revealed.
Snow gently falling
victims massacred somewhere
Haiku covers it
Apr 2018 · 378
Boomtowns Gone Bust
ConnectHook Apr 2018
When nations give God the *******,
Remnants of his bronze-age wrath may linger
And mess with investments or data-plans
Or gender (both the mother’s and the man’s).
National cycles of slow boom then bust
Reveal the limitations of our dust—
And the Lord who prospers may change, and curse
From behind the facade of our universe.
A tech-addled farce: that’s the dying face
Of our graceless, depraved and inhuman race
Glowing with sin; lit up by tiny screens
Upon which the globalist ends and means
Seep into clueless souls. These dead-in-life
With which our funereal times are rife,
Live for online shopping, Facebook, and sports
Immune to all the incoming reports
That their doom is hastening on its way
Inexorable progress, no delay . . .
With the Sovereign Lord, there is no plan B
For the tools of a godless technocracy.
Twilight’s wind now stirs.
In sacred grove leaves tremble . . .
Shoot. Lost my **** keys
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Aquel pueblo está cansado
de vivir siempre de esclavo
ya el Sandinismo le dio su lección . . .
y si no se van
aqui está mi brazo
empunañdo en poesia
para darle su cachimba lalalalalalalay laralalalalaylayla  . . .

VIVA NICARAGUA LIBRE !

ABAJO con la CORRUPCION de las clases ELITES

¡ ABAJO con el COMUNISMO y el GLOBALISMO !

Viva MI POESIA para SIEMPRE
El Tirano made his nation angry.
Marxism always fails.
Apr 2018 · 363
Bend This
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Why the hell would you want to change
if God thus made you (like Genesis)?
A notion so bizarre, so strange,
it begs some armchair analysis.
Such madness, yours. To rearrange . . .
thus we all learn what hubris is.
But on you babble, obscuring gender
(quite the conversation-ender).
Father means a man
and Mother means a woman
(there’s no other plan)
Apr 2018 · 305
Mother Goose-Gas
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Nikki Haley, big on talk
shook her UN tomahawk.
War-path armchair quarterback,
she gave our world a gas-attack.
Repent for all the lies you've told;
the lap-dog narrative waxes old.
Your leash needs tightened. Down, girl. SIT.
You're locked and loaded (full of ****).
Go beat your war-drum to the chief;
we offer you our unbelief
as tragic relief:
globalist stooge
Pentagon fake news
puppet of the Fake Jews
miss missile, Nimrata misinformed
missed the mark
Matriarch
in the dark
Hail Haley
I used to like her, but she is clueless IMO.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kA6UZCgZCmo
Who is her speech-writer?
Apr 2018 · 1.0k
Hail Your Matriarch
ConnectHook Apr 2018
We’ll give GOD credit
while you shriek: humanity !
On it must go—
dialectic insanity.
You have been programmed
for dumbed-down diversity:
Feminization
through global perversity.
Femininity
is a God-given blessing.
Appreciate it.
Apr 2018 · 1.2k
Syrious Limericks
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Though the chemical gas was a fable,
rebel terror we’ll arm and enable;
we will kick their Assad
with some help from Mossad
and create something TRULY unstable.

Little victims, all Syrian-bred
look pathetic: so small, nearly dead.
Lack of documentation
won’t dampen our nation;
from YouTube to bombing we’re led.

War-hawks pause for no burden of proof.
Show a whimpering child and then— **** !
They, rush in, like a fool
using Trump as their tool.
He’s been militarized. What a goof.
Lots of bad behavior from buffoons and egotists but worth watching:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGumIVGF_r4
Apr 2018 · 685
New Children's Lit Goes Out
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Young reader’s lit is a lucrative gig;
Feeds slop to learner like waste to a pig.
We love to get them reading.   Ah . . . but what?
Such open-minded offal as would shut
The hallowed sluice of Wisdom in a blink.
Grand waste of authorship, paper and ink
Noble trees pulped, and presses run—for this?
Distasteful tales and messages that miss
By so far they ought never have been told
Let alone color-printed, bound and sold.
Grotesqueries and morbid cultural rot
Raw ugliness (intentional or not)
Drips forth from this modern infantile lit
For any reasonable end unfit.
Behold P.C. fluffery, ethnic vibes
(Half of it scribed by lost Israelite tribes)
Global fables for our brave new deviants
Multi Kulti nonsense; non-experience:
Mafupe’s New Ungwa, Tano Means Five
Sho-Sho Goes the Wira-Wira.  Such jive . . .
My, such juvenile literary news
Serving to propagate progressive views:
Tia Fulana the Red Agitator
Grand Dad’s a Genderqueer Instigator . . .
Frida: Surrealist Queen of Misfit Art
Smelly Joe’s Super-Duper Stinky ****
Pages that dribble like a sneeze-filled rag
Well-pitched witchery, spelled out by some hag:
Diego the Dinosaur Reads Karl Marx
Trani the Modern Mixed-up Kitten Barks
Volume on volume of frivolous trash
All New York Times-reviewed (for kiddie cash):
Zombies Want Candy, Jimmy Has Three Moms
Snot-fest For Sassy Sue (Special Ed Bombs).
Manga mediocrity, attention-span killers:
Useless mind-wasting library-fillers.
Humpy and Fluffy Hunt for Chocolate Eggs
Barrels of froth (more like the tepid dregs ?)
Squirrel’s Fall Harvest Festival Goes Nuts
(Death by a thousand cutesy bookish cuts):
Useless reams of mindless marketed waste
With effete tribute paid to vilest taste
A globalist ghetto hype-o-rama
Party that starts and ends with Obama;
Covers flush with myriad fake awards
Encouraging our failing culture towards
The darkened depths. And who should bear the blame?
Publishers who mutually stroke for fame!
Such propaganda aimed at your child
After being mocked, ought to be reviled.
To hail such shameful writing as diverse
Actually serves to achieve the reverse;
Revisionists (more like demons than elves)
Have loaded your local library shelves.
The smoldering wick of so-called children’s lit,
Foolish lamp of decadent light, unfit
To illuminate or to froth about
Thus wavers, flickers faintly, and goes out.
Nationalism
will soon be the new normal . . .
so drink more soy milk.
Apr 2018 · 353
Fearful Cling Rap
ConnectHook Apr 2018
You’ve labeled us rightly: Real news. It’s no libel.
Forget about Putin; we’re just having fun
as we cling to tradition, and guns, and the Bible.
The pipe-dream is ending. Your war has begun.

We are glad you’re progressive—your future awaits.
Take your baggage, and go. We won’t hinder your flight.
You could choose one of many dull globalist states
or else stay, and prepare for the cultural night.

We are ****** and mean. You appreciate art.
We’re black velvet painting. You’re classical strings.
We are rigidly Right. You are left feeling smart
but appalled by the changes democracy brings.

We’re the garbagemen next to your uptown Picasso.
Our news is pure falsity.  Why ? Cause you say so !
We are selfish, aggressive, misogynist too . . .
(you can ask our sweet wives if the latter is true).

We’re oppressive to immigrants, harsh on our kids.
While you signal your virtue, we have none to show.
Such deplorable ways have you flipping your lids.
So please go out in style.  Or else don’t—but just GO.

We’re immune to the slurs you’ve been slinging for years.
Please progress to the North without further delay
and make good on your promises. Spare us the tears.
And buzz off—take a hike. Break a leg. Fade away.
Though you may hate him
he’s really not that right wing,
your president, Trump.
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Pastors posting fluff on Facebook
longing to be liked for being hip
read from the dull world’s losing playbook
to sink with their own authorship;
virtue-signalling to the flock
(a milky slice of soggy toast)
while gallivanting ’round the block
and hoping that you’ll like their post.
Trump’s Amerikkka:
Haiku is now act of war
against Fascism ☺
Apr 2018 · 245
Visual: Any Reef & Stall
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Lovely angles, muscles, motion
roused the pitch of hot devotion.
Banners raised as standards flapped
orders barked, salutes were snapped:
volk emotion.

Olympiads and warrior rallies
Mountain maidens, Rhineland valleys
showed forth her visionary arts.
This Überfrau demands our hearts’
analyses.

Leni filmed it with a flair
made us feel that we were there;
over, under, moving through
a merely mortal flaw: her true
**** affair.

Misbegotten Roman signs
intensified her visual lines.
Cinematographic blame
forestalled by Leni’s optic frame;
her vision shines.

She’d tackle any reef and stall
to answer nature’s filmic call
diving deep and wrestling Kau:
light in Sudan’s darkness, how
it can enthrall.

Has history been unkind to her,
this cinematic Lucifer ?
Or is she vindicated
and rightly adulated
as memories blur?

No one dares excuse, nor coddle
propaganda’s super-model.
Yet, the audience must admit
Leni was no hypocrite,
ours to throttle.

Liebfraumilch-maid ? Much depends
upon the angle of her lens
Leni makes the cameras falter,
wondering if film can alter
history’s ends.
HAIKU be all, like:
MINIMALISM baybeee . . .
(kickin’ Snapchat’s ***)
Apr 2018 · 782
The Jaded Gate
ConnectHook Apr 2018
You leave me cold—and so forlorn;
thou weary jaded face of ****.
Does any of your turgid action
hold a trace of true attraction—
more than the membranes, moans and glands
that move your products’ many brands?
Your upper face looks haggard, used
your orifices gape, unmused
in lurid and contrived excitement
offering at best, incitement
to a spurt of blasé bliss:
a risk-free game of Hit on Miss.
Fleshtones moan: transparent fakes
where tremors masquerade as quakes.
For such hard work you’re unimpressed;
your weary looks leave one depressed—
to seek, instead, an amateur;
the accolades belong to her
whose modest shoot on humble bed
ensures her book of love gets read;
much better than that HD trash
where made-up squeals meet ***** cash.

Recalling now the titillation
of my youthful ***-fixation
wherein falsities were prized,
airbrushed half-truths, oversized:
thrills to nevermore regain
nor recreate, much less attain . . .
yet, seen beside today’s hot mess
it’s more alluring to undress
the past, by varying degrees
(her imperfections sure to please).

Perennial curiosity
spreads carnal luminosity
upon the mysteries of the flesh
to tease our hungers; and refresh
our longing for the great Unknown;
flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.

Those naughty childhood memories
transmute the lustful ecstasies;
each glance, each timeless thrilling tease,
was stronger then—compared to this
whose pull is harder to dismiss.
It fades more quickly once it’s past—
but Venus’ vintage treasures last
until the suns of lust grow cold
and all of desire’s daughters old.
y'all can call me
the one who was a poet
but thought Haiku ******
Apr 2018 · 680
Intergalactic Hookup
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Climactic excitation
cosmic copulation
sidereal sensation
astral frenzy
sighs, stars, moans
her moans, hormones
interstellar *******
endlessly interesting
of course.
Reduced to this—
cosmic carnality:
black holes, shooting stars
spurts of intergalactic light
spasms of ejection
from the corona; solar fire
deep into lunar mysteries
outer space beyond her solar system
I seek dark beauty
new direction
off course.
Waiting
for a bigger better bang...
(out of space)
HAIKU—you feel me,
all about gettin' that WORD
well-composed, gnome sane?
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Attend, ye NINE, and careless swains:
descending to Arcadia’s plains;
a playful Zephyr wind of love
now stirs the leaves of VENUS‘ grove.

By PHILOMELA‘s unshorn flocks
and bright DIANA‘s flowing locks
my classic naiad air now brings
a gushing fountain’s hidden springs.
O’er verdant fields and greening rill
my lay shall fauns with satyrs thrill.
Ye swains and shepherdesses, come!
Adore the world’s Arcadian ***.

FLORA, banished from Eden, thrives
Sweetening hidden honey hives
whose swarms of workers never tire
providing flow’ry heart’s desire.

CUPID spreads his fluttering plumes;
and NATURE wanton pose assumes
uncovering her dales and glades
before her early glory fades.
The captivating limbs of grace
now parted, show her lower face,
where clefts are glimpsed—ravines, or chasms;
shuddering, bursting forth in spasms.
EARTH thus trembles. See her quake
and ruin of GOD‘s creation make.

WISDOM, fallen, pawns her crown
as high ideals come crashing down.
So o’er the fields, my pastoral lay
sets ****** blowing on his way.
Now thyrsus-bearing maenads pass
and BACCHUS rides upon his ***.
(A different *** should be adored
that fair creation of the LORD,
which gently rounded, swells the mind
with thoughts unhallowed, unrefined.)
This second *** we long to ride;
until she comes—our load inside.
But burdened beasts deserve no spite,
nor does my POETRY, despite
the fact that **** has made us DUMB
reducing us to spurts of come . . .
So chaste (and chased) celestial virgins
turn to trees at Classic urgings.

EROS spreads his wings (her legs)
inviting us to drain the dregs
while CERES’ tawny limbs now shake
as harvests man would undertake.
Old PAN gives rise to Attic fears
(as well the sav’ry BACON sears),
whose pipes the purling brooks enjoy
and streams flow faster, for their joy.
The golden past see here, anew
in rosy and poetic hue:
Will nature be reduced to ****?
Shall nymphs of pleasure, newly born
who bare their charming whole to all
cast womanhood in a dying fall
before a camera, there, to fawn
and light the rosy-fingered dawn?
If so, I say let’s get it lit
(since literature might help a bit)
and in the daybreak’s fervid light
we’ll now make out fair nature’s sight:
appendages outspread, well-splayed
where once the sprite and dryad played.
Such fertile pastures, mounds, and woods,
a panoply of carnal goods
our undulating field of bliss
make misconceptions: hit and miss.
These wetlands, groves, and bounteous limbs
enthralled to lust’s capricious whims
make sweet DIANA seek her quarry.
(far too late to say I’m sorry . . .)
***, our motivating prize
displayed in fleshly glory lies.
Her fanes are reared, which sounds obscene
where once raw NATURE reigned serene.
Halcyon visions of the hunt
direct our carnal minds to C – – T!
The blessed light, transcending hope
and rolling o’er each grassy *****
begins to shine on darkened waters,
stirring up the river daughters;
waking schools of silvery fish
who glide along their final wish:
to flee the sharpened hook of fate
upon which squirms the Master’s bait.
While PHOEBUS floods the surface bright
with beams of pure poetic light.

This HEAVEN, following ******* Hell
is less a Babylonian spell
than pure devotion, misdirected
(and a pagan shrine erected).
where the poets sing too long.
Now hearken well: I’ll close my song.
Don’t harden your dull heart in hate;
just glimpse the garden from her gate.
And view those less celestial skies
receding in her human eyes
Until these dear idyllic scenes
inspired by purely digital means
reveal, at last, a digital end
and past with present bravely blend.

Enough of flocks of stinking sheep
who eat and wander, bleat and sleep.
Who copulate, and **** and ****
as if their lives depend on it . . .
Instead, I’ll sing of human being
beneath the eye of ONE all-seeing.
Ye watchers of the erring flock,
and pastors whom the crowing ****
awakes from sleep’s Elysian fields,
attune your souls. My poem yields
an end to this Arcadian story
(it was naught but allegory).
Such fleshly charms are quite a treat
and mutton-chops make hearty meat.
The poet’s still mind
is like a cement-mixer
churning, churning. What?
Apr 2018 · 488
Combustability
ConnectHook Apr 2018
If you should choose to kiss, and kissing, turn

Redoubling, consuming in abandon

Then would love, in loving you, prove wanton

While terrestrial forests willingly burn.

Our lips in flames no waters extinguish

Until all love's knowledge itself unlearn;

Our pupils for that flaming lesson yearn

Which bequeaths the heart unlessened anguish.

So loving you, I leave to turn and choose

In naughtiness regained when all is ash

To profit from the loss with naught to lose.

Thus eyes that gaze, unchastened, toward the lash

Must lose, in turn what all the world had gained . . .

Read half-coherent verse—and think half-brained.
faces in the crowd:
pedals on a wet black bike . . .
where is my bike lock?
Apr 2018 · 441
Name of a City
ConnectHook Apr 2018
So many people have come and gone . . .
their faces fade as the years go by
Yet I still recall as I wander on—
as clear as the sun in the summer sky

                                                     BOSTON
                                                          ­                                                                 ­ 

Your name remains: a magic word
to conjure nights of springs long-gone.
I muse upon your face, alone
and find my heaven's hope deferred.
Since unpoetic life occurred,
Romance has gilded scenes long dead.
Nostalgic memory has fed
the embers of a fire you stirred.
You turned and walked out of my days.
I never heard your voice again.
Yet memories of you amaze
Engraved in my adoring brain.
In labyrinths we wonder free
to meet again eventually.

(Is this poem better in decasyllables . . .  ?
I need some feedback.)

                 Name of a City

Your name remains with me. A magic word
To conjure nights and scents of springs long-gone.
I muse upon your tawny face, alone
And find my heaven's hope now long–deferred.
Since unpoetic life and age occurred,
Romance has gilded scenes that lie long dead.
Nostalgic memory of you has fed
The smoldering embers of a fire you stirred.
One spring, you turned and walked out of my days.
I never heard your feline voice again.
Yet memories of you, intense, amaze
Engraved for good in my adoring brain...
On, through the labyrinths, we wander free
To meet in time again, celestially.
Something Japanese:
carp-pools, bamboo, some old monk . . .
yes—Oriental !
Apr 2018 · 1.2k
Nutmeg Harvest
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Qui Transtulit Sustinet

There sat CONNECTICUT, a twit
blue nanny-state, and doomed to sit
on welfare-warrens of the ******
her social service on demand.
She withers on NEW ENGLAND‘s vine
a bygone has-been, and a sign
of democratic overkill
where her once-dear and verdant rill
now stagnant flows: polluted stream
a moribund New England dream.
The richest state with poorest heart:
the Northeast’s saddest story. Part
of history’s renowned revival,
now irrelevant. Survival
chains her children in dependence
keeping back the state’s ascendance.
Apostate Puritan, grown old—
for LIBERTY, no longer bold;
a slave to Man, where once God’s WORD
awakened greatness. Souls were stirred
in ENFIELD (of all strange places),
Christ beheld in radiant faces . . .
Edwards held their spellbound souls
like spiders over flaming coals,
in gratitude for Gospel grace
renewing thus both town and race.
But I digress. Connecticut
is what I came to speak about:
forgotten dull colonial matron
yoked in failure, plebe as patron
nostalgic for her Charter Oak
whose deadwood limbs went up in smoke
along with dark tobacco wrap
while the plantation took a nap.
Her social programs overgrowth
pose forest fire-risk. Under oath
her public servants signal virtue;
sign which really should alert you
to the democrat-machine’s
impending failure (ways and means).
Nutmeg-addled Tax-and-spenders,
dollar drunks on welfare benders
widen economic rifts;
force single moms toward double shifts
while Latin Kings hold court in prison
waiting out their royal season:
fiscally unsustainable—
yet totally explainable
(nutmeg is a drug for witches
spendthrift warlocks, bankrupt *******).
Oh HARTFORD, city of the dead
which dies at five, then home to bed,
insurance once assured your rise;
but now your ghosts haunt sadder skies.
Your life displaced, outsourced, out-dated;
so, it seems, your fall was fated.
Meanwhile, close to New York City,
fairer fields are growing pretty
long on corporate commutes.
Data-driven growth computes
as data-drivers flood the roads
and enter by Manhattan-loads
from golden coasts’ Atlantic shores
and posh patrician golden doors
to bite the apple of our time:
a number-cruncher built on crime.
New England’s puritannic granny
(data-driven tyrant ******)
seeks to harbor tropic isles
with blandly bureaucratic smiles.
Your poor dear heart cannot afford
to welcome every island lord
who looks to better his estate
and so decides to emigrate.
Displaced Jamaicans outta yard
compel the soft verse to get hard.
Boricua separatists, dispersed
show nationalities reversed
and dwell between two foreign lands
in Spanglish no one understands.
Such nutmeg gets the covens high
to soar the stormy Liberal sky.
It’s Yankee hubris: condescension
taxing plebes for such dissension.
Though you connect, there I would cut,
excising from New England’s gut
metastasizing social tumors:
clueless and obese consumers,
teenage moms, pajama-clad
whose nenes wait in vain for dad.
QUI TRANSTULIT SUSTINET—truth . . .
but that was was in our nation’s youth.
She’s gotten worse with passing years
confirming citizens’ worst fears;
showing her colors every vote
her monotone, a droning note
on which the blue-bloods hang their hue
when hope and change are overdue.
Her atheist zeal meets Yankee pride:
a most progressive broomstick ride;
oblivious to her Christian past,
an enemy of God at last.
Senryu and Haikai:
Basho-san, can you get me
another beer, please?
Apr 2018 · 378
Latin Roots
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Oh what have you done to your lovely hair,
streaking with insult those glorious strands ?
Of God-given beauty so unaware
that you've put it to death by other's hands.

Tinted with sorrow in a dying fall:
your sultry darks exchanged for tainted blonde—
a chemical crown, clueless overhaul;
false gold, a dull glory now gone beyond.

Liberate your lustrous locks, set them free
to gather grace and claim their natural right
as God ordained; thus you were meant to be.
But lightening streaks do terrify the night.
Now I'm gonna write
An American Haiku:
TRUMP 2020 !
Apr 2018 · 564
Pyramid Schemes
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Wisely invested in mammon, secure,
I repose in my splendor, moronic—
bejeweled with scarabs, jackals, and cats.
My dividends total pharaonic.
Egypt was a scheme—
very long-endurance scheme. . .
but yes, still a scheme.
Apr 2018 · 228
What—Me Worry ?
ConnectHook Apr 2018
I sing of human dignity
whose absence can be seen
through lens of foul reality
within Mad Magazine !

The foibles of America,
the hubris and the glory
the paunch, the slouch, the bad-hair lives,
the real plebeian story.

Bruegel’s mobs and Ensor’s masks
improved, enhanced, updated
on comic page, until one asks:
is painting overrated?

Beardsley, Hogarth, masters all—
and acid-etched our race;
but unkind pure hilarious truth
beams forth from Alfred’s face.

The dolts, the clods, the leering fools,
the sociopathic clowns,
glitter like fractured plastic jewels
in Walmart-purchased crowns.

Alfred Neuman has the goods.
The lash, at first, feels bad
when whips of satire welt our back.
Behold the man: he’s MAD !
The good thing is that
You can crank a Haiku out
while you’re half asleep
Apr 2018 · 739
Litany of Limerick
ConnectHook Apr 2018
One World Limerick

The notion of nations united
gets the global progressives excited.
Their party of Babel
is ******’s own rabble
(we’re left with the Right uninvited).


Values Clarification Limerick

Many worldlings (whose ways we bemoan)
hope their lives we’ll approve and condone.
But we couldn’t care less
for the views they profess;
we just wish they would leave us alone


Roman Limerick

Our antichrist leaders (so Fabian)
are more Nero, and less like Octavian.
So with Caesars and salad
I’ll dress up my ballad.
(The future’s plebeian or Flavian.)


Kente Pajamas Limerick

A racist obtuse Afro-whiner
Tried to give the right-wing a black shiner
While applauding Obama
He railed at my mama
His manners could be a lot finer  .  .  .


Apocalyptic Limerick

The riddles of John’s Revelation
imply a large-scale devastation.
The end is not too clear
but looks rather nuclear:
a well-deserved A–bomb-in-nation.


Freethinking Limerick

An atheist, weary of fables
Found his intellect turning the tables.
He declared: As a nihilist
held to a higher list,
I’m for erasing the labels.


Mendacious Limerick

Fake propaganda as news
only fools those it’s meant to confuse
there is wrong, there is right
when you’re left in the light
of a nation with little to lose.
Um . . . men and women
are the ONLY two genders.
Deal with my Haiku!

PS: anyone else having trouble with italics & bold recently?
They're not working for me
Apr 2018 · 443
Counter-Cultures Recounted
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Beatniks got hip until hippies got beat
by their own rock’n’roll and by riot cops
as they made love and war in field and street:
spoiled rebel children, psychedelic flops
who thought their youth made them immune
to lies from gods that pipe that tune.

Beatniks leaned first toward hip existential,
breaking out of the fifties mental mold.
Culture’s Petri dish turned pestilential;
drugs, deviance and rebellion: dull as old.
Yet novel did it ever seem
to souls exploited for their dream.

The Hippies took that bongo tea-house scene;
added acid’s naked technicolor:
freak-outs, love-ins, the normalized obscene;
politics of outrage, now made duller.
Impulsivity their passion.
(Sin is never out of fashion.)

Youth’s dissident victory incomplete
they glimpsed on flowery fields of battle
kaleidoscopic visions of defeat:
the psychedelic baby’s death-rattle.
Allen Ginsberg’s perverted freak.
Now reached its Himalayan peak.

Trace back in time this cultural malaise;
the poisoned sources where doubt first enticed.
In retrospect we diagnose their ways:
anti-God, anti-family, anti-Christ.
Oh no, you say; that was just youth—
we had to follow our own truth.

What did we learn in your San Fran cafés
poetically dense in plume-clouds of smoke?
That arty nihilism’s just a phase
and transgression of morals a tired joke.
(The Man will always make a buck
off fools who live to smoke and ****.)

That mystic idols are not Truth . . .
blown minds will never save a soul;
Faith and Wisdom, both alien to youth,
in child’s-play, play a minor role.

That beats burn out and hippies age;
we’re no wiser for their excess.
Unwashed ravings, Bohemian rage
contain no truths—much less, success.

What did they teach us while tripping and ****** ?
Could it nourish at all, their cosmic brew—
their cult of youth, their dying gods bemoaned,
their howls, their road trips, their breakings on through?

Only this, Daddy-O — now dig my writ;
my be-boppin’ speed rant, my acid rock:
that drug-addled rebels who scrawl half-lit
fumble with a key that cannot unlock.
I wonder sometimes
How Haiku got popular
When it is so DULL
Apr 2018 · 191
S-Pop Bubble
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Whining—then pitching sullen fits
each time their childish will is crossed,
tech-addled sassy little *****
prove education’s cause is lost.

Such children show that means regress
once the family is supplanted
claiming rights they do not possess;
taking taxpayer funds for granted.

Loosed from homes of dark dysfunction
tyrant-bred by single mothers,
no devoted teacher’s unction
will suffice to raise another’s.

Oblivious to strategies
of motivation and reward
they sing our nation’s elegies.
The dull refrain: yo Miss—I’m bored.

This the greatest reparation
from the coffers of the state:
data-driven education
sacrificed to second-rate.
Silly nature stuff;
Nature doesn’t give a ****
about fallen man.

*free Haiku included with EVERY NaPoWriMo entry.
Collect them ALL !
Apr 2018 · 563
Big-League Hollyweird
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Our Left Coast sighs in a stupor of red
from evergreen coasts to the casting bed.
Hollywood’s big leagues deal their fatal blow;
vapid perspectives from stars in the know.
Glamour holds court: socialite solutions
when celebrities talk revolutions.
But red alone would bring our nation harm
cut loose from white and blue—and should alarm
the audience, who pay to see their plays
while questioning their wanton West-coast ways:
Designer-reds, a stain upon our land
where red with white and blue ought take a stand.
Such fluff from the stage set who roll in dough
is Hollyweird yeast—rising now to show
beautiful and swelling irrelevance
unaware of its insignificance:
Hypocrite pretenders all paid to act
in films where decent values are attacked.

Let us turn then from Thespis‘ leering smile
to lace up cleats and run the gridiron mile
where other plays get tossed in endless zones
as commentators rave in heightened tones
while fools raise fists—then take the well-payed knee,
their pigskin antics sold to you and me.
****** a fat mike before their muscled face.
Note well the dull reaction, low as base.
These tattooed thugs make vain attempt, through speech
multitudes of more thuggish fans to reach.
The sad attempt to use their words in vain
lacks clear interpretation. Yall nome sain ?
The musclebound elect, who toss a ball
(as if their silly game was all in all)
should stick to sports; decline to state their views
lest fans their spectacle no longer choose.
Thus stars of field and screen steal every show,
and cause our dying culture worlds of woe.
Contemplate the ****:
Boring nature imagery
Abrupt line-endings
Apr 2018 · 359
Spring Salvo
ConnectHook Apr 2018
It’s time to fire up my blog
and add to the poetic smog.
Marching thus, to April’s drum
may cause my muse to pause, mid-strum
and harp on my poetic lack
of will toward permanent attack.
Didactic, though, I strive to be;
And write with pure sincerity.

I’ll do my best to rail, and preach
and by such arts, some poor soul reach
assuring them they are not mad
but yes, the world IS worse than bad.
I’m sorry that I lack the power
to versify upon a flower.
(Leave that for some other, later
blithe pathetic poetaster.)

Where’s my muse?
(They must have maced her.)
http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/

I forgot to start posting my NaPoWriMo poems to HP --
Here they come!

www.connecthook.wordpress.com
Apr 2018 · 563
Poem Resurrected
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Rise from your grave. It's Easter Sunday
two-thousand eighteen years A.D.
Spread the word with hashtag/twit-feed;
make it cute.   No urgency . . .

Fluffy pinks, chick-yellow duckies
Nestléd eggs and pastel notes
just might charm those raging hordes
who long to slit some Christian throats.

Virtue-signal while you're shopping
Watch the game and charge your phone.
Allah's bunnies won't stop hopping
Till they make your land their own.

Sweeten up your springtime idols'
pastel poison. Drain the dregs:
Antichrist is here to offer
jellybeans and chocolate eggs;

Sweet untruths with trinkets given
lying in the plastic grass.
Easter morning, market-driven—
Christ is risen . . .   kiss my ***.
http://shroud.com/index.htm
Mar 2018 · 695
Insta-Limerick
ConnectHook Mar 2018
A princess of poets, Miss Kaur
Was promoted through publishing's power.
Scrawling lines for a hobby,
This perky Punjabi
Turned rupees to dollars per hour
Kaur is a name used by Sikh women as either a middle or last name [. . .]
Since 'Kaur' means "Princess", the name acts as a symbol of equality among men and women.
(from Wikipedia entry on "Kaur")

https://thepoetslist.com/2018/01/23/poetry-world-split-via-guardian/
Mar 2018 · 256
Mute that Trumpet
ConnectHook Mar 2018
Make Amerika FAKE again
Make Babylon straight again
Make HYPOCRISY great again
Make DECADENCE late again
Make RESURGENCE wait again
Make nostalgia great again
MAKE SUBVERSION GREAT AGAIN
Make data-driven ******* GREAT again
Make MEDIOCRITY rate again !
Make repetition GREAT again . . .
Make SHALLOW SLOGANS great again !
Make jingoism and Godlessness great again !
Feb 2018 · 648
Modern Verse is Madness
ConnectHook Feb 2018
Lines break
              weirdly

white   space   is   r a c i s t

repetition emotes imagery

crypt  ic  ally / intention ally

dull erudition . . .
pompous verbosity

              rhymeless atrocity
                      lines / break
Weirdly-spaced lines
Of cryptic observations
Doth not a poem make . . .
Feb 2018 · 509
Still Milking That Thing
ConnectHook Feb 2018
It gets sour after a while;

that righteous quaver

that merely rousing oratory

superficial hagiography

state-sponsored martyrdom . . .

The old black and white

news-clip shots.

Yes, it was necessary;

the past was tense.

You overcame.

We got over it

gets sour after a while.
ConnectHook celebrates Black History Month.

Wait - -
isn't EVERY month Black History Month?
Feb 2018 · 334
Las Vegas Air
ConnectHook Feb 2018
Set the mode to Roundelay

on the Road to Mandalay . . .
(apologies to Kipling)

Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
Feb 2018 · 654
Leave Nothing to Chants
ConnectHook Feb 2018
HEY HEY !   ** ** !
Worn-out chants have GOT to GO !

More TRUMP / more PAY PAY PAY
more Greatness U.$.A.  !

** ** !   HEY HEY !
Donald Trump has GOT to STAY!
Seriously, Lefties;
you need some less monotonous and more inspiring chants.  Sigh . . .
Feb 2018 · 505
Signaling From Above
ConnectHook Feb 2018
Thank your progressive stars you are so filled with virtue, good taste, and tolerance unlike those ****** hateful redneck Trump-voting plebes. Thank all the gods of Democracy you are kind, gentle, and gender-unbiased as opposed to the divisive, racist misogynists you must share the earth with. Take a deeply liberal breath and center yourself for a moment… you will need it to endure the hordes of misguided gun-toting bigots trying to steal your oxygen. Give yourself a loving Euro-globalist pat on the back for doing the correct thing and voting your conscience against the racist nationalist KKK-sympathizers who run on fear and hate. At least you  are resisting fascism with all your humane heart unlike the uneducated, clueless, knuckle-draggers so easily led by their neo-**** overlords.

YOU, after all, are for Humanity and Compassion.
Virtue-Signalers UNITE !
Jan 2018 · 392
Global Renewal
ConnectHook Jan 2018
Another false prophet, another beast --
Another peace process for the Middle East . . .
Another massacre, a newer war;
A bright new scarlet global *****.
Another poem, another curse
A further plunge from worst to worse . . .
Another sociopathic brute,
Another ***** in a business suit.
Another smiling psychopath;
Another angel's bowl of wrath
Another data-driven plan
To twist yet further fallen man . . .
A bolder data-driven lie
As LUCIFER ascends the sky,
Another depression, another bust--
In MAMMON we supremely TRUST !
€£¥$ all hail MAMMON
GLOBAL ABOMINATION
lol take a selfie !
Jan 2018 · 309
Reflections on Ester
ConnectHook Jan 2018
Mordecai (hallowed gatekeeper)
triumphs over Haman (gallowed hate-keeper)
Shout-out to my Jewish peeps
(the GOYIM know !)
Dec 2017 · 7.5k
Christ Massed
ConnectHook Dec 2017
Children drugged with truthless tales . . .
Unwise men embrace their treasure;
Algorithms urge the sales
In malls devoid of merry measure.

Plastic sparkles in the air;
Automotive ads turn festive . . .
Forced good nature everywhere
Makes the shopping crowds grow restive.

Corporate greed spins altruistic
Hyping goods, suppressing Christ.
Our Yuletide is their big statistic
Oversold and underpriced.

Secular beribboned fluff:
Peace, Goodwill . . .  but don't say God !
And heaven knows you've had enough;
Just download the app—acquire the mod.

Coca-Colaed, Disneyfied
You're wrapping paper for their fire;
Eggnogged, Santa-ed, thrown aside
While Babel's flames roar ever higher.

The godlessness shines right on through
Where Christmas lyrics die, unheard.
The Yule-log and the sparks that flew
Expire in embers long unstirred.

The old usurper carting toys
And Chinese knock-offs in his sled
Sets off a lot of empty noise:
Insanity in green and red.

The lurker leers and hauls his bag
(jolly antichrist distraction)
While flying Bishop Nicholas' flag:
A winter psy-ops covert action.

Only message left: go drink!
And may your cup o'erflow with cheer
Before you risk to start to think
Yourself and God right out of here.

Hallmark haloes, bygone kitsch
enwreaths the memory of the years,
Kindling maudlin sadness which
wells up in melancholy tears

For Christian culture (rest in peace)
Long-corrupted by dollar signs;
For fa la la and fattened geese
And holly midst the ivy vines;

For Dickens' gospel of the season
Anglican angelic ghosts
Pushing us beyond unreason
Toward the future's spectral hosts;

For folklore now reduced to ash
Commercial blow-outs, ***** snow;
For Saturnalian urge to smash
the store-front windows where they show;

For useless manger figurines
Passed down from some more faithful time;
For hallowed and nostalgic scenes
No longer worth a Roman dime.
I still love Christmas but its ongoing commercial secularization by corporate globalists makes me retch (into my mulled wine).

Nonetheless, like Scrooge, I intend to keep Christmas well.
By the way, that's Merry CHRISTmas.
(No Christ, NO CHRISTMAS)

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2017/12/19/christ-massed/
Dec 2017 · 1.1k
In the Bleak Mid-winter
ConnectHook Dec 2017
Christina Rossetti (1830 – 1894)**

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow has fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter,
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and *** and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Throng’d the air,
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,—
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.
Also called "A Christmas Carol"

For all its lovely directness, “In the Bleak Midwinter” reflects Rossetti’s troubled religious faith. An Anglo-Catholic influenced by Calvinism and Adventism, she found God the Father terrifying and remote but identified with the humanity and suffering of Jesus. In describing the nativity, she mentions the attendant celestial spirits but stresses the earthier elements of the scene—the tangible milk and love that Mary gives her child and the comforting companionship of the animals in the stable. This attraction to natural manifestations of divinity may remind us of Emily Dickinson, who was Rossetti’s nearly exact contemporary and of whose work Rossetti was an early champion. (Both poets were born in the bleak, midwintery December of 1830—Rossetti on the 5th, Dickinson on the 10th—though Dickinson died in 1886, eight years before Rossetti.)


from: https://bookhaven.stanford.edu/2015/12/best-christmas-carol-ever-christina-rosettis-in-the-bleak-midwinter/
Dec 2017 · 3.3k
Degendering Grammar
ConnectHook Dec 2017
❣ = ❣ = ❣

HE am not it
HERS + HIS = HERES
WE am SHE but pronoun are sexist
THEY is ZHEY
SHE + HE = ZHE
SHE + IT = ****
HE + roomfull of SHEs = they (not sexist)

Down with all gender-based languages!
Gender-based grammar is inherently sexist and oppressive.
Grammar itself is a hateful, rigid, and often overtly racist construct.
It is little more than an imposed control system which attempts to assign roles and reinforce identities that facilitate social regimentation.  Such patriarchal and occidental euro-supremacist control must be resisted, even at the socio-linguistic level of grammar itself. Traditional family structure reinforces and justifies this linguistic oppression, and is to be forced to adapt or rendered obsolete. "Fathers" and "Mothers" must yield to  "others".

Useless vestiges of the fascistic Roman tongue such as Italian, Spanish, French, Portuguese, and Romanian, along with all associated Romance-derived dialects must adapt and evolve toward current progressive understandings of gender-fluid reality -- or be abandoned.

As a global and genderfluid re-evaluation of rigid and outmoded languages develops, humanity will make significant strides toward collective empowerment, both lexical and ******. Desire will be freed from patriarchal norms and find itself free to cathect onto the object of its enlightened choice.  False and patriarchal notions of singular/plural will no longer be inflicted on unrestrained multiplicities of being. We won't need no more significators to point out a practices that mean a nothings man out the reified racists of language herself as pronouned "other".  Boo boo hate she up the mandingo adder abbot shahooligalistaaphany.
Urgh urgh I are free! Bort grammar break ump ump humpty daffodil.
It am not significate ourselves into oblivion.
Nov 2017 · 651
Thankless Limericks
ConnectHook Nov 2017
Career politicians, who cluck
as they strut with an impotent pluck
make me sick with the season
befouling all reason:
they're less of a **** than a cuck.

That gobbler and turkey-neck Mitch
makes me furious—so mad that I twitch.
He obstructs every battle
while jiggling his wattle;
unpardoned, unworthy (but rich).

The patrician political class
is a party that speaks through its ***.
They are lacking in guts
with no ifs, ands, or buts
but I swear: they produce enough gas.



HAPPY THANXGIVING, Fellow Poets
And best wishes to all the Revisionists.
Dig in:  http://tinyurl.com/y9868oqm
Nov 2017 · 409
The City in the Sea
ConnectHook Nov 2017
LO! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently —

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free —

Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —

Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of scultured ivy and stone flowers —

Up many and many a marvellous shrine

Whose wreathed friezes intertwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol’s diamond eye —

Not the gaily-jewelled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass —

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea —

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave — there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrown aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide —

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow —

The hours are breathing faint and low —

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence.

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.
The Dim West . . .
(more like Dhimmis, ha ha ha )

written by Edgar Allan Poe
Nov 2017 · 677
Fishy Haiku
ConnectHook Nov 2017
Nippon carp pool scene
media feeding frenzy
fake news: foul sushi

Great orange savior
magnanimous provider
feeds outside the box.

Eastern harmony
while fake news carps at Donald . . .
Media: go to  hell.
Let Eastern dawn illuminate harmonious meeting of brilliant minds. Dear Leader, Orange Savior of Mankind, makes great deals yet also is kind to gentle fish.  From his all-providing hand the sacred Koi enjoy a portion of benificence. Great leader and fellow-citizen Trump strides boldly into enemies' flashbulbs, like vanguard of populist nationalism confronting weak running dogs and reactionary landlords of globalist tyranny. Fish who refuse his generosity must hide in cold deep, risking hunger and loneliness, condemned by the People's glorious movement toward revolutionary rebirth.
Traitors and false journalists: you are FISH-FOOD.
ALL HAIL DEAR LEADER AND FORWARD-THINKING PEOPLE'S HERO DONALD J. TRUMP

https://youtu.be/ZrXNDbZF-jw
Nov 2017 · 290
Ishmaelite Couplets
ConnectHook Nov 2017
No, your "god" is not at all great.
It's clear to all that you're driven by hate.

Explain how infidels provoked your wrath
by enjoying an autumn bicycle path ?
Such wonderful additions to our melting ***.
Oh I know, Christians are just as bad -- no, they're worse.
They do the same things every week or so, don't they.

Now get back to enjoying the big game, kuffars.
Oct 2017 · 368
St. Martin Luther
ConnectHook Oct 2017
Luther walks forth in yon majestic frame,
Bright beam of heaven, and heir of endless fame,
Born, like thyself, thro toils and griefs to wind,
From slavery’s chains to free the captive mind,
Brave adverse crowns, control the pontiff sway,
And bring benighted nations into day.
Remark what crowds his name around him brings,
Schools, synods, prelates, potentates and kings,
All gaining knowledge from his boundless store,
And join’d to shield him from the papal power.
First of his friends, see Frederic’s princely form
Ward from the sage divine the gathering storm,
In learned Wittemburgh secure his seat,
High throne of thought, religion’s safe retreat.
There sits Melancthon, mild as morning light,
And feuds, tho sacred, soften in his sight;
In terms so gentle flows his tuneful tongue,
Even cloister’d bigots join the pupil throng;
By all sectarian chiefs he lives approved,
By monarchs courted and by men beloved…
from: The Columbiad, Book IV  by Joel Barlow

While the little ones are making plans to do their door-to-door candy scavenging tonight, let’s not forget that for Christians all over the world, October 31 marks Reformation Day.

It was October 31, 1517 – 500 years ago – that a monk by the name of Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the door of the church in Wittenberg, Germany and set off a firestorm of controversy, but ultimately, changed the path of Christianity with what was the Protestant reformation. He also drew the ire of the Roman Catholic church, whose hierarchy had found the selling of “indulgences” to be quite profitable.

“Indulgences,” by the way, were bought from the church. For a price, otherwise unrepentant people could “buy” forgiveness for their sins, trading money for a get-out-of-Hell-free card.

Yeah. That’s not how it works, and I shudder to think of how many are in eternal agony today because the church cared nothing for their souls and did not do their duty to call them to repentance, but rather, took their money and sold them false security.

Once word of Luther’s 95 theses reached Rome, they were studied and deemed “heretical” to the church. He was given 120 days to recant by Pope Leo X. He refused, and in January 1521 he was excommunicated from the Catholic church.

I don’t think he really cared.

In April of 1521 he was asked again to recant, and his writings were ordered to be burned. He hid out for a year in Eisenach, Germany and began the project of translating the New Testament into German. A transformative project that took 10 years to complete.

Luther’s later years were equally controversial, although, not in a good way. There’s no sense in visiting that part of his life, except to say that he was very much human, and we all are prone to stumble.

What he began with his theses, however, was a good that cannot be taken away.

From the Reformation movement, emerged the Five Solas, the very heart of the movement, and crucial to this Christian life.

Sola Scriptura – Scripture alone. The Bible is our highest authority, when it comes to the teachings of our God.

Sola Fide – Faith alone. Only faith in Jesus Christ saves us.

Sola Gratia – Grace alone. It is the grace of God alone, and not by the graces of any man, that we are counted as saved and forgiven.

Solus Christus – Christ alone. Only Jesus Christ is our Lord, our Savior, and our King.

Soli Deo Gloria – To the glory of God alone. It is for the glory of God alone that we live.

Beautiful.

The Reformation became necessary because the church of the day had drifted from the purpose and intent of Jesus Christ’s teachings, layering over the simple truths of who He is, and who we are to our Father in Heaven with the ambitions and greed of men.

Today, I thank God for the Reformation, that the truth of Christ and his free gift of grace no longer be hidden from humanity, or distorted by politics.

God does have a way of working things out.

From:  https://www.redstate.com/sweetie15/2017/10/31/lets-talk-reformation-day/
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