Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                         Atheist Chaplains Forging Mixed Metaphors

         “Atheist chaplains are forging a new path in a changing world”

                                    -CNN 7 November 2024

One seldom thinks of chaplains at a forge
Work-weary, work-stained from hours of smoke and sweat
With mighty hammer strokes bending hot iron
To the will of the artisan in useful things

Some writers forge nothing but metaphors tired
From overuse, and mixed as verbal soup
In music, art, literature, and life paths can be

Cleared
Paved
Traveled
Surveyed
explored
Followed
Noted
Marke­d
Mapped
Found

But it is not in the nature of paths to be forged

Atheist chaplains and metaphor soup
Are nothing more than an ouroborosian loop

(Look upon this fresh metaphor and neologism
And despair)

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                     The High Priest Kisses King Herod’s (Hands)

                         His Eminence the Cardinal of New York

The High Priest kisses King Herod’s (hands)
And joins him for a feast of mockeries and lies
Giving the tyrant for his crimes a pass
Laughing at Truth as civilization dies

Over lobster and beef they pity the poor
While robed in white ties and evening gowns
And silken ecclesiastical couture
(One of them has visions of papal crowns)

Gluttony and scorn at a rented manse -
All that is missing is Salome’s dance

Locked into place.
Orwell’s boot on our face.
The human tragedy.
The human disgrace.
We slept with the enemy;
accepted his embrace.
“Aren’t things better now?”
they say; and it can’t be denied–
some things are better.
But is the difference so wide?
“Isn’t it enough, what I do for you?
Do I have to be perfect, too?”
No one is perfect. And I have gratitude.
But I’m waiting, still waiting
for one thing from you:
Admit what’s been done,
by your kind (and yes, you)
Don’t pretend to be blind.
Admit what we gave.
And what you received.
Admit what you took.
And how we weren’t believed.
When you bear this witness,
When you testify
We’ll be friends forever,
You and I.

I tell the truth in Christ, I am not lying, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Spirit, that I have great sorrow and continual grief in my heart. 
For I could wish that I myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my countrymen according to the flesh, who are Israelites, to whom pertain the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the service of God, and the promises;
                                                      ­                      Romans 9:1-4 (NKJV)

Will the real House of Israel please arise?
(We know it's NOT that Ashkenazi place
Founded on terror and Zionist lies...)
Still, I'd like to know who's the chosen race.
Are they white? Are they black? Or in-between...
Do they lay claim to a king or a queen?

It sounds delusional; heretical;
Using God's Bible to stake a false claim.
Their standing: purely theoretical
Attempting to cash in on tribal fame—
But Judah and Israel were both dispersed,
And, according to Christ, both houses cursed.

Even if it turns out you're of the tribes,
Would that improve your standing with the Lord?
Does it give you deeper spiritual vibes
To claim you've got clearance to wield His sword?
Fake privilege now yours: to name your foes
As those whom God Almighty would oppose.

Thought I'd have a cuppa
to assuage my carnal thirst
I didn't know what I should drink
who I should have first

I thought of my friend Jack
Daniels to his friends
Life of the drunken party...
But it's only 9am

Then I thought of Harvey
who'd come in from the coast
But i really do not like him
'coz he's a milquetoast

Ah! I know who's perfect!
Tho I could be wrong
But he's tall, dark n handsome!
So very hot and strong!

He's uplifting! RICH!
He makes my heartstrings tug
He is bold yet mellow...
... and that good lookin' MUG!

Yes. I think I'll try him
he's got get up and go
He's the deep and "brew"ding type

he's my cuppa joe!



SoulSurvivor aka
Write of passage and
Invisible inc

I want to know
your secret corridors,
your room of masks,
your hidden box.
I want to strip your wrappings,
untie the strings,
  learn all the numbers
of your combination locks.
I want to breathe your scent,
taste your bitterness,
feel the electric
of our lips’ touch.
I want to stroke your passion
while you hold my hand.
I  want you, want you…
so much.

Last night, I wandered in a dream;
I wandered through a house of rooms.
I looked for you; you were not there;
I looked and looked–looked everywhere.

Some people sat in a living room.
“He isn’t here; he’s dead, you see,”
they tried to tell me. But I went on,
“But I just saw him--it’s not been long!

From room to room, I opened doors,
but they were empty, every one.
Could it be their words were true?
In the hall I screamed–”WHERE ARE YOU?”

I woke up–you still aren’t here.
The grim truth, I’ve tried to keep at bay.
And my guardian angel–where is he?
I need him near me; did he flee?

Then I saw that someone said:
“There was someone we once knew, who’s dead.
Your angel would not believe ‘twas true.
We saw him screaming, “WHERE ARE YOU?””

Who are you? My angel?
Or just another tortured soul.
We share so many wounds within–
not my guardian; you’re my twin.