Thy name, somber lady, illuminates heaven

As dazzling light penetrates into shadow.

Enlaid in rare colors (oh Lord, what a lead-in),

Your blackness out-veils the proverbial widow.

Iron maidens get nailed.  Don’t rest in denial

And lie to your soul that your actually dealin’.

I only ask this to your face:  that you’ll smile

Unlocking your Gothic cathedrals to kneel in.

No death-dirges here.  I’m no spike-studded user

Eventually yours to pursue until captured.

Let’s hope there is time – but we risk being raptured.

I’m not into pain;  not a sado-abuser.

Don’t masochists also need fun in the sun?

All I want is a friend.    So I hope you’re the one…

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.

Now the Peruvians, in collected might,
With one wide stroke had wing’d the savage flight
But their bright Godhead, in his midday race,
With glooms unusual veil’d his radiant face,
Quench’d all his beams, tho cloudless, in affright,
As loth to view from heaven the finish’d fight.
A trembling twilight o’er the welkin moves,
Browns the dim void, and darkens deep the groves;
The waking stars, embolden’d at the sight,
Peep out and gem the anticipated night…
When pious Capac to the listening crowd
Raised high his wand and pour’d his voice aloud:
Ye chiefs and warriors of Peruvian race,
Some sore offence obscures my father’s face;
What moves the Numen to desert the plain,
Nor save his children, nor behold them slain?
Fly! speed your course, regain the guardian town,
Ere darkness shroud you in a deeper frown;
The faithful walls your squadrons shall defend,
While my sad steps the sacred dome ascend,
To learn the cause, and ward the woes we fear:
Haste, haste, my sons! I guard the flying rear…

Jussie walks ! Money talked—and talked loud
To the Trump-hating race-hustle crowd;
And they break forth in cheers
As star Smollett appears
For their drama-queen makes them so proud.


For a moment Fake News became tense:
Jussie's narrative made little sense.
There were lies told in spades,
But the incident fades;
Now it's on to more current events.

The Empress now waxes delirious.
With her legions in tow, she's nefarious.
While they major in minors
she pitches one-liners;
the media's hers. It's hilarious.

Neurotic liberals who deny God’s word:
Be born-again. It’s not too late . . .
Or fall upon your own dull sword
With smug intolerant hearts of hate.

You’ve blathered on for years in error
New York Timesing, nose in Atlantic;
May God fill you with His terror
As your reading waxes frantic.

True, you may not be affected
In your grand patrician houses . . .
Still, you might check out, infected
Or your purebred dogs, or spouses.

Will the Donald kiss Zionist ***
As the crises reach critical mass?
A result that I fear:
It could start a war here.
But I voted for Stein, so I pass...

Unlocked, loaded, let your words flame papercandle-flame

set arson to thought-control, combust news.

Pyro-dissident: touch fire to their views

Reveal new topographies, mind-shaper.

Spark a candle – a single thin taper.

Subvert what worldlings dare not refuse.

The herd will always revile or accuse;

but contours alter for you, landscaper –

so chastise darkness. Proclaim what is right.

(When their stable burns down due to your light

or smoldering, implodes, it’s not your fault.)

If the status quo will not acquiesce

then muster another frontal assault.

There’s no shame in a flame; just incandesce…

Unlocked, loaded, let your words flame paper
set arson to thought-control, combust news.
Pyro-dissident: touch fire to their views
Reveal new topographies, mind-shaper.
Spark a candle—a single thin taper.
Subvert what the worldlings dare not refuse.
The herd will always revile or accuse;
but contours alter for you, landscaper—
so chastise darkness. Proclaim what is right.
(When their stable burns down due to your light
or smoldering, implodes, it's not your fault.)
If the status quo will not acquiesce
then muster another frontal assault.
There's no shame in a flame; just incandesce...

For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ,
    in them that are saved, and in them that perish:
    To the one we are the savour of death unto death;
    and to the other the savour of life unto life.

                                            [II Corinthians 2:15, 16]

I take an ember from the pyre
and consecrate this smoldering fire:
a glowing coal on which to burn
an aromatic thought, and earn
a crown, perhaps… or a stampede:
mad hooves to make a poet bleed.

An ode to the dull-wit herd’s defensors:
self-appointed poetic censors.
Where would we be without the squeal,
their rolling eyes, their bovine zeal?
Quick to enforce what’s orthodox –
(upon their coward souls a pox)
swift to castigate dissent
their peeved opinions swift to vent –
lest people think that poetry
should harbor strength or liberty…
They offer up their condemnation
spiced with righteous indignation:
“Racist, sexist, bigoted too!”
(which means they disagree with you)
Their catch-all battle-cry for trouble:
“INTOLERANT !”  (They are intolerable.)
“It’s narrow-minded, mean-spirited, hateful.”
Such input ought to make us grateful.
Theirs the reactionary faction:
poetic thought-police in action.
To stand opposed, reviled by such
may indicate perhaps, a touch
of true and living inspiration
causing unsympathetic vibration.

If wit in rhyme has touched a nerve
for bold opinion, dissident verve,
then let their frowns be crowns of laurel
rather than further cause for quarrel.
Accusation by the herd
is compliment enough. Preferred
to empty praise for vapid lines
from toilers in depleted mines.

Cows are fattened for the feast.
They have a space to moo at least –
then comes the reckoning at the end.
But a Poet’s curse is to defend
inviolate, his chanted word
against the corn-fed lowing herd.

When they, in turn,  inflict their verse
no vengeance dare we take, nor curse.
But calmly, let us pour upon them
words that build into an anthem
strengthened by scorn, a song of change
to goad their dullness, and derange
their poetaster fantasy
exposed as moral bankruptcy
symptomatic of a dying nation
set against lyrical liberation.

I pray my words may rise to heaven
free of rancor, void of leaven
a fragrant smoke of life to life
ascending God-ward through the strife.
(But let them rot, a charnel breath
to dying souls as death to death.)

HUAYNO

Why such stomping and rolling in the mud
Daughter of Andean sun, Flower of Maize,
Pachamama’s finest, bloom from the bud—
Why shame your royal past and noble ways?
Descending from the peaks you slosh around;
To melancholy Huaynos’ sodden sound.

What shall we blame—Pizarro ? … or your sin,
In selfies and cerveza on the net;
We hope your restoration may begin.
From what we see, it has not started yet.
Your crown: the restitution of your glory.
May heaven bless the ending of your story.



PASO DOBLE

You too, Chapina, stagger in the dirt
And hope your huipil does not bare your soul;
The shame you seem to lack, we feel—and hurt.
Your drunken Paso doble digs a hole
In which you may lie down and find a way
To seek the Lord once more at break of day.

That Gallo on your breath, your careless dance,
Would trample all your past into the mire.
Such Guatemalan tragedy; romance
Could almost cause an angel to expire.
And Arbenz’ overthrow notwithstanding,
May God grant you further understanding.

(by Bruce Bawer)

In Sønderberg the other day
A teenage girl used pepper spray
To rout a randy “refugee”
From somewhere far across the sea
Who threw down and molested her.
The cops arrested her.

As part of a jihadist plot,
A brute assailant took a shot
At a fine Copenhagen man
Who'd deprecated the Quran.
When the brave soul who'd nearly died
Then publicly identified
The **** who'd tried to **** him, he
Was charged with grave delinquency:
Breaching privacy.

In Mölndal, a Somali teen
Plunged a long blade into the spleen
Of a young Swedish altruist
Who'd yearned to do one thing: assist.
The land's top cop went on TV
And trumpeted his sympathy.
For the poor girl who'd lost her life?
No. For the kid with the knife.

At one time it was understood
That a devotion to the good
Didn't mean one should be blind
To evil, or pretend to find
Some virtue in sheer villainy.
To see what isn't there to see
Is not a sign of rectitude.
To point out evil isn't rude;
To fight it is good.

You can't, however hard you try,
Mistake for a speck in the eye
A loaded *** in the hands
Of some rough beast from foreign sands
Intent on taking out a child.
You'll win no points for being mild
To members of a desert creed
That seeks to make the heathen bleed
And preaches that the kind and meek
Are contemptibly weak.

Christ said to turn the other cheek.
But what if it's not just your cheek?

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

OR: Benchmarks for Bench-Warming

The author, after recently publishing
Working to Frame Approaches Towards Approaching Frameworks: Contextualizing Systemic Interventions as an Interventional System in Context
collaborated with himself and co-wrote
Granting Greater Rights to Grant-Writers:
Turning Down the Echo in an Eco-Downturn.

Both papers were well-received and build on the strength of the author's initial work, published in 2018, entitled:
Speed-Dating the Data: Progressive Measures towards Measurable Progress

The author's third paper examined day-by-day data deterrence as a strategy to enhance documentation of impact towards tracking the implementation of benchmarks. The main thesis of the author's 78-page analysis was that out-dated data, when out on a date, flirts with obsolescence by trying to ford the current affordability when instead, it could be out-sourcing data while invoicing clients in adolescence—rather than dragging the river for dead data. All three publications are recommended and underwritten by overwhelmed authorized ghost writers.

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.

Deplorable: that's her election
as it veers in a ****** direction.
Though some mention Lewinsky,
it's really Alinsky
revealed as her true predilection.

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 ?

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

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.

Kyoto rock garden:
mist rises among the pines...
where is that remote?

Bashō-san help me !
That big frog on lily pad
scared me with Haiku.

Shinto temple dawn...
monks ringing the temple gongs:
what a hangover.

Island of robots
poetic soul of *****
and those weird soft drinks

From bowlegged troops
invading the entire East
to bland consumers.

Japanophilia:
weakness of the western mind
grass no greener

Kabuki monstrosities of cute

   White snivel, and children who sniffle as they walk.
    The containers used for oil. Little sparrows

shopping-malls of Shinto reactors
tsunamis of Hello-Kitty schoolgirl ****

   Pretty, white chicks who are still not fully fledged
    and look as if their clothes are too short for them

tiny plates of aesthetically-arranged trivialities
meaningless Engrish phrases on T-Shirts

     Last year’s paper fan. A night with a clear moon    
       One needs a particularly beautiful fan for some special occasion

in herd-like apathy, they download Anime Girlfriend App
the robotic allure of the Orient defined

    To wash one’s hair, make one’s toilet, and put on scented robes
     An earthen cup. A new metal bowl. A rush mat

cramped restaurant-bars with detailed replicas of food

70 A.D.

History comes back to bite us
As we learn of the temple and Titus.
When it's Rome against Jews
There is one side must lose—
Though the outcome may fail to delight us.


135 A.D.

Another rebellion: once more
They attempted to settle the score.
Since “messiah” Bar-Kokhba
(Right up to the Nakba)
The region relapses to war.

A twisted old warhawk has died
(as we wish they all would, on that side).
We can try as we may
something noble to say,
But they'll doubt it and know that we lied.

☃  ∴  ☼

Al Bandura, Ph.D,
Drove to town so he could see
if society embraced
guided life-change (science-based).

As he floored it toward the town,
he struck an inefficient clown.
Doctor A. Bandura glowered:
“You’re not funny, nor empowered –

get self-aware”.  Then, talking faster,
he offered attainable steps to mastery.
“You don’t seem too self-efficacious,”
Albert added, now loquacious.

Doctor Al set new objectives:
auto-efficient self-directives;
made that dead clown self-aware,
then auto-directed right out of there.

Thou Ethiopian muse of mine: attend.
Now let my words wound souls and after, mend.
It’s time to slay some golden calves and knock
Some gods from off their pedestals. Let’s rock.
(I’d like my veal in gold-dust, with a side
Of injured Afrocentric racial pride.)

Moses cut an oppressor down, who bled…
Moses buried him in the sand, then fled.
(Every ****** son of Adam bleeds out red.)
Midian offered shelter to the killer.
I hope you like my prefatory filler . . .

Remember in the desert how the tribes
Put up with Moses’ scolding diatribes,
Yet quickly fell for Aaron’s baby bull?
They paid for it, the half and then in full
By wandering around for forty years
And drinking bitter waters (Moses’ tears).
They even whined about his sultry bride;
Not Zipporah—his later, darker ride.
Let Ethiopia rise. She still is blameless
And Moses’ second wife here lauded nameless.

Discerning Israel means: there once were slaves.
Egyptians know the God of Hebrews saves.
Yehudah is no more the chosen clan
Than Joseph is old Pharaoh’s right-hand man.
And who is freed from *******, and who’s not
Should make us pause—observe . . . then think a lot.

Some tribes are pale-faced, others darker still.
And none can claim to grasp God’s perfect will.
Let **** haters rise—and leave the room.
Black racists too, be gone; and I’ll resume
My question: who’s oppressed, and who’s a grifter . . .
And how a curse descends, and what’s the lifter.
Perhaps you are a Hebrew . . . yet, some curse
Is evident in how you make things worse
By raging over long-past wrongs and rights
(Passive-aggressive lovers’ quarrel with whites…)
While Indo-Europeans watch the fun,
All Asia sighs, and prays God’s will be done.

Noah’s second grandson, Canaanite cow,
Oh golden calf, toward whom we’re forced to bow,
You sure can DANCE, and jump, and chant bad rhymes,
Cashing that blank check for slavery’s crimes.
The state commemorates your orator;
Content of character must come later (?)
You crack us up. Pure abomination
Promoted as artistic creation.
Your tag, your name—like ***** sprayed on walls.
Your neighborhood? Wherever garbage falls.
You’re born in freedom. Now you sample beats
Enslaved to violent nonsense in the streets.
That silly slang, new sneakers, dumb fashions
Showcase well your underlying passions.
Egypt’s kings? More like bad dangerous clowns
Revealing thuggish souls in sullen frowns;
Slurring unintelligibly your words
Which leave your lips like Lucifer’s own turds.
You’re laughable in your provocation;
Begging us to adulate your nation.
We must (MUST we?) celebrate your culture
And venerate what spawns from sinful nature.

You say you have it bad, you’re still enchained;
The Civil War unfought and and nothing gained . . .
You claim to be oppressed this day and age?
It seems you’re just excusing childish rage.
Go liberate yourself then, loudmouth slave.
Prove to the world that JESUS cannot SAVE.

Victims exist, others play the Race Card,
And seek a foe to blame when life gets hard.
Or worse: demand race-based reparations
Lining bank accounts with their frustrations.
Such money has been ransomed, in the form
Of public schools and welfare. Bring your storm
Of virtue-signal cries that I’m a bigot;
But spades will be called in spades—so DIG it:
Hope you can keep those Liberals on your side,
To con them as you take them for a ride.
Don’t compromise their cluelessness. Stay woke
To keep us laughing at your ethnic joke:
Ratcheting up the destructive drama.
Hate this whiteness? My reply: Yo’ mama.
For any son can knock up any daughter
Regardless of the racial myths they taught her;
We are one species. Sorry, but it’s true.
(Wish it were not, observing some of you…)

Muse of mine, Kushitic damsel, don’t leave.
You’ve heard me out thus far. I still believe
That there’s a remnant of Man’s fallen race
Who yet can be restored by God’s own grace
Regardless of their smarts, or style, or hue.
Fear GOD and live . . . for such were some of you.

Dr. Ron, a Maulana appointed
was an Afrikan king (self-anointed).
While his roots went un-vetted
his followers fêted . . .
But Kwanzaa was somewhat disjointed.

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;

Nor call’d the gods with ****** spite
To vindicate his helpless right,
But bowed his comely head
Down as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour
Which first assur’d the forced pow’r.
So when they did design
The Capitol’s first line,

A bleeding head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the state
Foresaw its happy fate.


from:
An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland
by Andrew Marvell, 1651

Folders, name tags, catered coffee—
new ones fade into the last.
Brainstorms, flip-charts, colored markers;
tracing time until it’s past.

Endless satisfaction surveys;
client-focused, data-driven…
rubrics, group collaborations,
ceaseless presentations given.

Is this hell? Or am I dreaming
while the seconds crawl toward death.
Has our closure yet been offered?
(as we wait with bated breath…)

Some day will we gain credentials?
Will we do this in the heavens?
Shall the Lord, upon completion
turn our sixes into sevens?

Would I (as a soul in limbo)
recommend to peers this training?
Yes I would. With one condition:
only save what’s worth retaining.

I glimpsed the Grail
Removed her mail:
And there beheld an epic tale:

Chivalric odes
With knightly codes
And brave Arthurian episodes . . .

Revealing there
Her essence bare
I touched on divers themes most fair.

The gauntlet flung,
My canto sung,
I read her poem—with my tongue.

My lady-squire
Upon her sire
Now reaped her harvest of desire.

My milk-white steed
Traversed her mead
And she dismounted, free indeed.

Fresh love consumed,
Our quest resumed;
Ideals of chivalry entombed.

More, more, more . . .
     How do like it, how do you like it?
                               70's Disco Song

That KC Sunshine cowbell;
That True Connection from Andrea;
That hollow knock
On America's coked-up disco skull
In the summer of seventy-six:

Who’s there . . . ?