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Randy Johnson Mar 2016
Baal was a phony god that was worshipped by many, including King Ahab and Jezebel.
Jehovah put it upon Elijah to prove to the people that he was the true God of Israel.
Satan created Baal to turn people away from Jehovah God.
It took Elijah to prove to the people that Baal was a fraud.
Elijah knew that he could show the people the truth and make Baal falter.
He told them to slaughter a bull and use it for a sacrifice on an altar.
Elijah told them that Baal would be the true God if he could burn the bull but no fire came.
But then Jehovah God sent down fire and burned the sacrifice and that put Baal to shame.
Even though Elijah had the wood and bull covered with water, both still burned.
The people saw that Jehovah is the true God, that was the lesson that they learned.
King Ahab and Queen Jezebel promoted Baal worship and it was something they came to regret.
Both of them ended up dead and God was pleased with Elijah who was the boldest of his prophets.
Chapter XXVI
Messiah of Judah IV part
Miracle  V - Gethsemane / Aramaic Phylogeny

They come out of Bethlehem, all on the Giant Camels. Of the seven spaces in the column, the last one that was occupied was the seventh where King David was going. Of the five spaces that remained, the Cherubim were going they were playing with Raeder and Petrobus; they would shine with their adventures flying towards the heights of the majestic Sun. The cherubs tinkled with the tinges of angelic Abrahamic beings, involved in the adoration and praise of the Caravan. Cherubs are mentioned for the first time on the route back to Jerusalem, with the great participation of bumblebees, bees and wasps, all flying alongside the Cherubs, Raeder and Petrobus and Alikanto. They would all stay up to seven hundred meters before reaching the eight gates and returning to the garden of Gethsemane. They were surrounded by dance in the Aramaic phylogeny. The bumblebees were embedded in the hills laden with echoes outside of man…., Putting themselves to the east of the Garden of Eden in rows of Cherubim, with a burning sword that was stirring everywhere, to guard the path of the tree of life. Ezekiel describes “four living beings” as the same beings as the cherubim, each had four faces that were like man, lion, ox and eagle - and each had four wings. Regarding the appearance of the cherubim: "there was in them the likeness of a man" These cherubs used two of their wings to fly and the other two to cover their bodies.

Beneath their wings, the cherubs seemed to have the shape, or likeness, of a man's hand that resembled the Aramaic phylogeny, which linked the organic environmental pollinations of the Lepidoptera, which were carrying the fertilizing spheres to reach the scrawny angiosperms. The Christic language was inaugurating on the fringe of the frolicking land, which awaited the inauguration of the Linguistic Phylogeny, to attend to the edicts for the perenniality of language, which relates Gethsemane to the olive presses, the cherubs flapping their wings to reach the father - Abba. With the flashes of the Apocalypse the Cherubs danced happily, magnifying the presence of the Apostle in the Hexagonal Birthright with the holiness and power of God. This is one of their main responsibilities throughout the scrawny abbey of members mobilizing to meet one of the twelve apostles with propaedeutic assonance attached to the twelve giga camels, in addition to singing praises to Iahvé, they also served as a visible reminder of the majesty and glory of the Messiah.

The Apostle says by parasychological regression: “A fascinating walking route in Jerusalem begins at the top of the Mount of Olives and curiously leads us to the route that will be taken after the evangelical legs of the camelids that will take them to the Holy Sepulcher, continuing through the Damascus Gate ..., here the camelids were restless! Very close you could see the topography on the top of the Mount, between the route of the feet of Bethany and Jerusalem, the Garden of Gethsemane appeared to us full of Cherubim ..., Joshua's prayers in Aramaic are felt sneaking into the camels' snores as they felt the prayers before his arrest in the Orchard. "

In here, at that moment, it happens that the bumblebees arrested the apostle, taking him to a specific sector of the garden, where sacred water and humid wind continue to flow, having olive trees growing in the garden of the embossment with huge risers, to be bordered by the oil pipeline in olives to grace the Lord on the laurels in Daphnomancy, as a holistic form of divination by which they are intended to make predictions using the leaves and branches of the laurel, chewing the leaves beforehand and then igniting them towards the crackling of the sacred fire of Aramaic Gethsemane that lit the Joshua's sacred paths and feet, and the Cherubim also carried on their four wings, with four laurels on each laureate wing. Thickened with palm energy, they walked towards the main entrance of the alzamara. They arrive in the surroundings of Gethsemane, surrounded by the Daphnomancy of the laurels that the Cherubs, the bumblebees and others carried on their wings that would be in charge of inseminating the pollinating particles in the angiosperms, thus they would rescue the smallest words and their verbal serial in the words that were transferred from the Kafarsuseh stable in Betehelem, so as not to misplace the Aramaic word, being thus redistributed to Gethsemane, by the Lepidoptera and bumblebees, wasps and bees.

This inter-organic phenomenon would make re-couple the verbalized accents of Joshua in mature and unborn age, in such a way as to preserve the Aramaic dialect, to re-clone the same groupings and intentions as the environmental phylogeny of the dialect, in cultural ritual that would write it. with the insects and the Cherubs, to re-enchant all the pluralities that would be arranged in the Garden, to energize the oil pipelines for the salvific and appearing of the image of Saint John the Apostle, King David, Vernarth, Etréstles, Eurydice and the remaining that compose them beyond the seventh camelids until reaching the last one; the Fifth Cherub who will be the scribe present with Peter and the two sons of Zebedee; only one with the close in great courage San John.

His Holiness Joshua said: “Abba…, Father, all things are possible for you; take this cup away from me; but not what I want, but what you. Then Joshua came and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, Simon, are you sleeping? Have not you been able to watch one hour? Watch and pray, lest you enter into temptation; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak. Again he went and prayed, saying the same words. When he returned, he found them sleeping again, because their eyes were heavy with sleep; and they did not know what to answer him. He came the third time, and said to them: Sleep now, and rest. Enough, the hour has come; behold; the Son of Man is delivered into the hands of sinners. Get up, come on; behold, the one who gives me is approaching. ". From a few lively little, henchmen lights were seen to the greater discontent ..., they were the executioners, attached to the hostile broken leaf of the laurel that fell on his back" On fire and cracking in all their offspring "

The anticipated visions were fertilized by the Cherubim, who advanced events in the chronological life of the apostle, which was related to his life as an apostle and evangelist of the new succession after returning from exile. It was coming close and entering by a path, it was a path where the lines of oil pipelines were that crossed the subsoil of Gethsemane.
Fifth Cherub Septuagint: “As a scribe of the Hexagonal Birthright, I refer to two hundred years before the birth of Jesus, where he developed a Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures that became widely accepted as a legitimate (even inspired) translation. Tradition relates how King Ptolemy II of Egypt established a vast library in Alexandria. However, it was not complete, and I wanted to have a copy of the Hebrew Scriptures in it. Ptolemy sent representatives to Jerusalem and invited the Jewish elders to prepare a New Greek translation of the text. Seventy-two elders, six from each of the 12 tribes of Israel, came to Egypt to fulfill the request. And like your Santiago you will write with me the allegory that will shine more in Alexandria. They were driven to the lonely island of Pharos, where at the end of 72 days, their work was completed. King Ptolemy was pleased with the result and placed it in his library. When the task was completed, the translators compared them all and each was found to be miraculously identical to the others. The result later became known as the Septuagint (from the Greek word for 70) and was especially popular with Greek-speaking Jews during the following centuries. Hebrew was displaced and Aramaic prevailed, which is the New Testament language that will influence the eclectic Aramaic language that was also promoted to heaven with Joshua to communicate with all the preaching of his Father, in the sacred phylogeny with the Lepidoptera and her entourage. "I am sitting on the last camel, and I know I will be the first.

Ellipsis  Prophet  Elijah: “They were on Mount Carmel, when I summoned the faithful of Baal, Ashera and others. I summoned them to seal a new covenant on the slopes that pointed to the barking in Jezrael, from which a long and cursed drought was lamenting. At the moment all the congregants were absorbed by the imprecation he made before Ahab, inquiring the abandoned Baal and killing the 450 pagan prophets, they called Baal in several days and nights and did not answer, Elijah mocked him saying: “Call him with all his strength. Maybe he fell asleep and needs someone to wake him up. “The people gathered on the mountain, and then Elias told them: “You have to make up your mind. If Jehovah is the true God, follow him. But if Baal is the true god, follow him. Let's do a test: the 450 prophets of Baal must prepare an offering and call their god. I'm also going to prepare an offering and call on Jehovah. The god who responds by sending fire is the true God. “The people accepted. Elijah put his offering on an altar and poured a lot of water on it. Then he prayed, "O Jehovah, let the people see that you are the true God." Immediately Jehovah sent fire from heaven to burn the offering. The people shouted, "Jehovah is the true God!" Now Elijah said, "Don't let any prophet of Baal escape." That day, they killed the 450 prophets of Baal. Then a little cloud appeared over the sea, and Elijah said to Ahab, “Here comes a storm. Prepare your car and go home”. The sky was filled with black clouds, the wind blew and it began to rain very hard. The drought is finally over. Ahab left in his car as fast as he could. Jehovah helped Elijah to run faster than the chariot. But were all Elijah's problems over?

The ground shakes and the initiations of the aramic roots appear, after the intervention of the fifth Cherubim and the prophet Elijah on Mount Carmel, the Phylogeny is testament to the links that flow between the subterfuges of the re-dogmatized civilizations by obviating languages and pagan dogmas. In this genealogy, there were the bumblebees, bees, wasps and Lepidoptera dispersing all this storm and rain before they all reached the arenas of Gethsemane, with the perfect annexation between the idiomatic form and the species communicated with the living expressions where so many times the Joshua's feet circled the Gethsemane tapestry. Without doubt here these species will establish the DNA, and its molecules for the successful genetic derivation for an evolutionary environmental testament in the establishment of pollination in the orchard.

Phylogenic dogma: The coincidences in morphological and embryological themes will be located in the garden, with a great genetic relationship and evolutionary similarity. To the garden, to eternalize the concatenations of both topographic niches, in such a way as to root the Aramaic in every organic element and not, to provide the great prevalence of an eternal pacifying and luminous discourse in creation that does not pass away, but rather is It reactivates with these procedures in a new phase that will be inaugurated by the Apostle and Vernarth, reestablishing the premature hegemony of the garden, as a link between birth and resurrection.   From the ratio Nazareth - Bethelem / Kafarsesuh - Getsemani. Of these diversifications, the key will appear with the trees and their adaptation to the environment and the new Methodist dogmatics, to adapt it to the material and immaterial elements as a habitat of paradise in Judah, with adequate species and aware of their own self-preservation and self-evolution.    At the Service of Joshua, preserving the Aramaic dialect as the axis.

Vernarth says: “In Greek mythology, Ilithia-Eileithyi, is our Hellenic goddess of births and midwives. In the cave of Amnisos-Crete it was related to the annual birth of the divine child, and its cult is connected with Enesidaon  the - shaker of the earth, who was the chthonic aspect of the god Poseidon. My divine child has similar "Behold the Fifth Miracle" coincidences both in a cave or stable. Ilithia is seen with the torch carrying light for the children to come to the world of the Messiah. Now we will shake the orchard, from its nascent oleaginous ducts in which we will have the salvific light that will flow from the hyposa secretion of the candelabra with the olive oil before a new messianic verdict, where we will populate the cave of the earth as a great similar light which will accompany the Shemesh-Sol philosophy, bearing witness to the Messiah and reconciling us with his instructions as it was in Jezrael and now in the orchard.

Under  edit
Chapter XXVII    Messiah of Judah IV part Miracle  V - Gethsemane / Aramaic Phylogeny
Mr Zeal Jun 2014
This day your either caught up in Baal, Baphomet or Bethel.

Since I was a kid they was trying to trip me in a fairytale..
Dragons are Good and alittle magic won't ****.
So far from the truth but some say who's gunna make these scars go away... Well tell me where did the scars come from?
Cause we know evil is bad and good is the truth!
If your caught in a lie dosent that mean that God told you?
Certainly not!
It came from baphomets mouth, so why are listening to liars mouth?
Dragons are real and so are unicorns
But dragons destroy and it takes a sword and one man to overcome him..
Maybe it's me?
Maybe it's you?
I just wanted to show you Baal is what we create for fantasies and selfish ways.
Baphomet is the Devil who lies right in your face.
Bethel is a holy place that keeps truth as it's king and good as it's God.

Wake up!!! For one day we will be on one side or the other...

It's hard to tell the truth and love someone who dosent know Good, but it's easy to fall and give up for a lie and at the end never notice that lies were getting life from you.

Forgive me.
Good is good and bad is bad
Still must I hear?—shall hoarse FITZGERALD bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?
Prepare for rhyme—I’ll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

  Oh! Nature’s noblest gift—my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,
The Lover’s solace, and the Author’s pride.
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which ’twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet’s shall be free;
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream
Inspires—our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

  When Vice triumphant holds her sov’reign sway,
Obey’d by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime;
When knaves and fools combined o’er all prevail,
And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale;
E’en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

  Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies, e’en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed, Pegasus!—ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!—have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed—older children do the same.
’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;
A Book’s a Book, altho’ there’s nothing in’t.
Not that a Title’s sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write,
Tho’ now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review:
Not seek great JEFFREY’S, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

  A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure—Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning—call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie,’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet caress’d.

And shall we own such judgment? no—as soon
Seek roses in December—ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that’s false, before
You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY’S heart, or LAMB’S Boeotian head.
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, ’twould be sin to spare;
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
’Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, why I venture o’er
The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod before;
If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
“But hold!” exclaims a friend,—”here’s some neglect:
This—that—and t’other line seem incorrect.”
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden—”Aye, but Pye has not:”—
Indeed!—’tis granted, faith!—but what care I?
Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE.

  Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE’S pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain;
A polished nation’s praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people’s, as the poet’s fame.
Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE’S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY’S melt;
For Nature then an English audience felt—
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler Bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past.
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire’s self allow,
No dearth of Bards can be complained of now.
The loaded Press beneath her labour groans,
And Printers’ devils shake their weary bones;
While SOUTHEY’S Epics cram the creaking shelves,
And LITTLE’S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves.
Thus saith the Preacher: “Nought beneath the sun
Is new,” yet still from change to change we run.
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas,
In turns appear, to make the ****** stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts—and all is air!
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:
O’er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail;
Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own;
Some leaden calf—but whom it matters not,
From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT.

  Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;
For simpering Folly loves a varied song,
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels—may they be the last!—
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner’s brood
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why;
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard’s grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

  Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,
The golden-crested haughty Marmion,
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight.
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace;
A mighty mixture of the great and base.
And think’st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,
Let such forego the poet’s sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain!
Such be their meed, such still the just reward
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo’s venal son,
And bid a long “good night to Marmion.”

  These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;
These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow;
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.

  The time has been, when yet the Muse was young,
When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung,
An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name:
The work of each immortal Bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years.
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth,
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live.
Not so with us, though minor Bards, content,
On one great work a life of labour spent:
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,
Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!
To him let CAMOËNS, MILTON, TASSO yield,
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,
The scourge of England and the boast of France!
Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,
Behold her statue placed in Glory’s niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,
A ****** Phoenix from her ashes risen.
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,
Arabia’s monstrous, wild, and wond’rous son;
Domdaniel’s dread destroyer, who o’erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e’er knew.
Immortal Hero! all thy foes o’ercome,
For ever reign—the rival of Tom Thumb!
Since startled Metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,
Illustrious conqueror of common sense!
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,
Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,
More old than Mandeville’s, and not so true.
Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! cease thy varied song!
A bard may chaunt too often and too long:
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say,
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way;
If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
“God help thee,” SOUTHEY, and thy readers too.

  Next comes the dull disciple of thy school,
That mild apostate from poetic rule,
The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friend “to shake off toil and trouble,
And quit his books, for fear of growing double;”
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of “an idiot Boy;”
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the “idiot in his glory”
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.

  Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here,
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity’s a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a muse,
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ***:
So well the subject suits his noble mind,
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind.

Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! Monk, or Bard,
Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard!
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,
Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo’s sexton thou!
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak’st thy stand,
By gibb’ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band;
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age;
All hail, M.P.! from whose infernal brain
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;
At whose command “grim women” throng in crowds,
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
With “small grey men,”—”wild yagers,” and what not,
To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT:
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease:
Even Satan’s self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta’s fire,
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?
’Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.
Pure is the flame which o’er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o’er,
She bids thee “mend thy line, and sin no more.”

For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue,
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires,
And o’er harmonious fustian half expires,
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author’s sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think’st thou to gain thy verse a higher place,
By dressing Camoëns in a suit of lace?
Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste:
Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE.

Behold—Ye Tarts!—one moment spare the text!—
HAYLEY’S last work, and worst—until his next;
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays,
Or **** the dead with purgatorial praise,
His style in youth or age is still the same,
For ever feeble and for ever tame.
Triumphant first see “Temper’s Triumphs” shine!
At least I’m sure they triumphed over mine.
Of “Music’s Triumphs,” all who read may swear
That luckless Music never triumph’d there.

Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward
On dull devotion—Lo! the Sabbath Bard,
Sepulchral GRAHAME, pours his notes sublime
In mangled prose, nor e’en aspires to rhyme;
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.

  Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings”
A thousand visions of a thousand things,
And shows, still whimpering thro’ threescore of years,
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers.
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles!
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?
Whether them sing’st with equal ease, and grief,
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf;
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells,
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
In every chime that jingled from Ostend;
Ah! how much juster were thy Muse’s hap,
If to thy bells thou would’st but add a cap!
Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest,
All love thy strain, but children like it best.
’Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE’S moral song,
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years:
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain;
She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE’S purer strain.
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine;
“Awake a louder and a loftier strain,”
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,
By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone—but, pausing on the road,
The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode,
And gravely tells—attend, each beauteous Miss!—
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss.
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!—at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe:
If ‘chance some bard, though once by dunces feared,
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first,
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
and to think: there's a human face behind
the horror;
it's ultimately unimaginable,
or a variation of relentless
theology never consolidated
as in: always providing a priest:
sermon of Baal
                                 - why do
we need them? please remind me...
   why do we need priests and imams?
that's hardly a worse affair
with the already staged Holocaust
and ethnic cleansing of
the disintegrating Yugoslavia -
am i to care about the Vatican lard
because it just staged something
memorable like not wearing
reds suede shoes? oh... hip hip hooray!
i'm all ears and applause.
they wear the dog collars
but never the choir boys' leash -
i'd cleanse the marble floors with their
desecration - because they are nothing
more than what some are called
state benefit scroungers -
               abracadabra crappers -
                     i'm actually unemployed
because you deem priests as worthy of
being a demanded profession...
this is my Martin Luther kindred oath -
only with the Poles and the Irish
can this circus go on as it is;
what can these priests actually summon?
a warm ****, and carbonated waters
of lake Galilee; and that's all folks;
but nonetheless you keep them
employed, as you said to Socrates:
cobblers and bartenders and carpenters
to the gas chambers! because we need
impotent priests of Baal / Jesus Christ!
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, wars and loves and all that’s tragic.


A Father’s lust, an Uncle’s hate, a puzzling labyrinth, through the gate,

A Cretan born, another covered, a starry symbol, placed in the cupboard,

Special place, where heroes meet him, mindless creature, murderous ******,

South in winter, man below with a bull above, placed in the heavens by two father's love,

A strangeness here, the seat of trade, in forbidden tryst, a beast was made,

Man of blood, tortured soul, stalks the maze, that stalks the pole,

"Stranger still, this wild pattern, revolving Seventh, Circle of Saturn?"

Unholy corridors made of granites, trace out the movements of the planets!

Life of horror, a soul of pain, terrorizing, with no refrain,

Smells their fear, scents of sin, raging actions, threshing men;

“They call me Moloch! They call me Baal! Tear your body, festoon my hall!”

In trepidation, to gatekeeper sent, a ****** start, for your punishment;

“I collect the hearts, I eat the eyes, I eat the liver, before he dies!”

Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, life and death and all that’s tragic.
The Minotaur is the constellations of Orion with the "bull's head," or "bull at/as his head," -Taurus inside the, "labyrinth," created by drawing the lines of the celestial motions, planets and stars, inside a circle or spherical graph. The Bull is the Apis Sun God of Egypt and the Man is the Orion-Aryan symbol of the harvest in Sumer-Persia therefore Minos was the ruler who combined the two kingdoms into one. Most likely the second to do so since Narmer/****** was his father.

In Greek myth each myth contains three celestial items found in the heavens and they are combined in story as, "Heteroclitic," according to Plato meaning assigned by the author as the author sees fit to tell it. In short, the myth is put together by the teller in any way in which the storyteller wishes to convey it.
Sean Keane Mar 2010
What stands upon a monumental gate
A sinister Baal, something filled with hate
It makes me wonder where I am
An overbearing presence, will slaughter me like a lamb
Something is coming, its invisible to me
To my surprise its not one, but three
The first thought spoke of my birth
how my story began on planet earth
from a tiny lad to a, cantankerous kid
I wasnt that bad, yet my whole life I hid.
always mad, I'm treated like captain Kidd
The second thought told me about my life right here
If I dont step it up Ill have no one to hold dear
taking some things austere
with others I crack a sneer
emotionally irrelevant, my thoughts unclear
The third thought told me of my future to come
the things he mentioned turned my body numb
And in a flash I was left in my room
Is my subconscious foretelling my doom?
I say "No Way!" then took a deep breath
As I close my eyes, I feel the icy hand of death
Randy Johnson Jan 2016
People in the Bible worshipped idols time and time again.
They did it even though doing so was a terrible sin.
People once worshipped Baal, it was one of the idols.
People refused to worship God even though it was vital.

When God saw people worshipping idols, it really angered him.
They had to suffer the Lord's wrath when he punished them.
Some of those people's cities were destroyed and some became slaves.
Worshipping idols was a stupid and shameful way for them to behave.

Some people still have idols, one of which is movie stars.
Jehovah God is watching, he knows who these people are.
The Lord is the only one who people should idolize.
If you worship him, it is a decision that is very wise.
The mailbox that bears my name was filled with notes from God's secretary,
each notarized with an antioxidary,
regretting to inform me
| a meeting cannot be yet arranged,
{that} the schedule will just not allow |
And as my eyes palavered with each and every flowing word,
{The clerk had impeccable penmanship}
the sorrow hit me like a God ****** hammer,
falling flaming from the gloomy clouds,
splitting my skull without a sound,
and if I could accurately express exasperated stammering,
my letters in return would be that-

So to temporarily occupy my infinite time,
dine do I, on plates of leaves, as the guest of hounds from Hell,
And O! they do not bellow but whimper quietly.
They softly said as I was fed to second-guess my piety,
but whether they meant to be so dour it was difficult to tell.
So as I ate my mind escaped and I fell and fell and fell
(not unlike a hop/skip/jump straight into a well.)

The hounds with zeal! they laughed at me
as I tumbled into darkness.
O! how lonely falling is, it can only end in pain.
As I swirled into the pit I see my past is feigned.
The darkness then began to waste away as light unfurled,
and fast and sure my flailings ceased, and I landed on my porch.
The force my feet had bent the boards and my mailbox erupted.
The letters God had sent to me fluttered coyly in the breeze.

I remembered how the lamb I had eaten was most oily,
   and I vomited-
But all that came from my tired organs was the milk of human kindness.
I rose and stood la'statuesque,
frozen,
like a victim of a Gorgon-
My limbs then quit;
I acquiesced,
and fell again onto my porch.

I could hear the cackling that drifted from the matted muzzles of the hounds,
hiding in the shrubs nearby.
I tried to yell
but hounds from Hell
can only hear a lie;
I whispered, "Yes, I'm doing fine, I ask you, don't assist..."

The laughing stopped a'suddenly and silence took ahold.
I lied, I lied!
I lied as I were dead.

The hounds understood and turned to dust, vanished with the wind.
O! how lonely falling is, the landing ostracizes,
and there I sat, a porch pariah,
until the mailman returned with the sun,
bringing bills and notes from God,
and soon my mailbox will again be filled |

| And confound me like a divining rod in a boat
When everything points to true and right,
abandon do I all my hope |

— The End —