Part I

One of my God's
non-eternal enemies
whom i refer to as "little b"
(i try not to lend it the dignity
of having its name spoken by my lips
when i write
i will not grace
its improper noun with the
upper casing of its first letter)

Translated into English it becomes
"the lord of the flies"
this bi-dimensional vermin
expands its influence by keeping
its existence as hidden as possible
from its unsuspecting hosts

The uni-dimensional plague that
"little b" took its name from
the common fly
is fond of the open wounds in
the hides of animals
it lays its eggs in the wound
which soon hatch and begin to feed
on the surrounding rotted flesh
"little b" and its gang
act in a similar way
but they are not satisfied
with rotted flesh . . . .
they thrive on the growth of fear
the expansion of hatred and distrust.
they grow fat in the putrid pus
of pride and discrimination

beelzebub

Part II

When a lie
any manner of falsehood
is accepted as Truth
and allowed to reside
unopposed in the mind
its presence begins to radiate
emanations of itself
throughout the whole system

The lie soils everything it touches
and being "sin"
left in place long enough
it produces the "fruit" of death

The entrance of sin into a human life
provides a beacon for "little b"
it rushes in to lay its eggs
in the midst of the pain
created by the emotional or psychological wound

Once hatched, "little b" maggots
frolic through the host searching out new areas
of anguish, bitterness, fear and pain to feed on

As the parasites continue feeding
they multiply
driving the host to
deeper depths of depression
anger confusion and sorrow
which in turn
create even larger areas for
the invaders to occupy

If this activity is left unchecked
Eventually all that is left of the host
is a dried and useless husk
ready to be dumped
into a hole in the ground
and seemingly
forgotten about

for awhile

Curtis Delk Rose 2/13-2/22/98

Part III

The Fruit Of bitterness
(another aspect of “little-b”)

'bitterness' does not arrive all at once
like a rogue-refugee relative
with its cluttered baggage and sickly children
barging around, breaking rare ornaments
and willfully refusing to learn the new tongue

It arrives slowly
almost too slowly to notice
seeping into the brain's house
a thin vapor trickling down into unprotected crevices
coating chair legs, vinyl floors and other hard surfaces

Sometimes you notice
what appears to be a stain of some kind
and you occasionally make a half-hearted attempt to wipe it off
But what the heck
you so seldom have company here
and the body's house needs so much attention.

The preacher in the new stone church yells from the pulpit
"And if you're gonna drive that rattle-trap truck to church
at least you could park it in the back
where every Tom, **** and Harry that drives by can't see it."

Every time that searing dart
passes through your mind
the soul cries out
"Oh! Why did he say that?!"

So softly you think it is you speaking to yourself
the ugly gray shadow of 'bitterness' whispers
"Because you are too stupid to afford a new car
You'll always be too stupid to get ahead
Look at who you married, stupid!
A loser who can't even get a job where he works indoors in the winter time
No wonder god killed your baby!
You're too stupid to be a mother!"

This goes on for years
'bitterness' grows more and more at home
it leaves the lights on all over the house
every night, all night
and plays the hateful reruns so loud you can't sleep
You wonder why your digestion is getting worse and worse
"Arthur Itis"* moves in and sets up his angry shop
Unaccountable pains squeeze from one place to another
and finally
your fingers are as stiff and useless
as all the money you sank into that big stone pit

When the old preacher finally died and
left the big stone church as an inheritance
to his skirt-chasing, cigar-smoking son
'bitterness' thought it was time for
it to try the recliner for the first time
it picked up the remote and
began playing one painful rerun after another

My daddy should never have done that to me!"
(But he is years dead now and who would ever believe you?)

"But it still hurts!"      

("And remember the time at the beach when
Henry wondered out loud if maybe it was your fault that Chucky died?")

"How could he do that?"

And . . .    And . . .    And . . .

Years pass
the old heart and lungs are approaching the point
where they can't handle the pressure anymore

'little b' leans back
in the brain's broken, worn-out recliner
puts its hands behind its head and
daydreams
about trying your granddaughter on for size


Curtis Delk Rose

81101 & 112515 & 12818

Many Thanks to Brad Watson for the time he mentioned that the
archaic word "beelzebub" translates into the “lord of the flies”

**arthritis

A JEWEL AWAKENS

What will the next blow
bring to me....
which facet of life
now turns
to the shaping tool
in the Master's hand
(If one doesn't crack, one learns...)

You'd have thought me of
no use at all
long ago
when i was chosen
one day in the field
Then held to the light
examined and turned
Was there value
that this stone could yield?

The Master
must have thought
"Yes"
for He carried me home
and decided
what my shape should be

Then a piece at a time
began chipping away
at the flaws
which were all over me

At first confused
by the blows and the grinding
i felt sorely used
and complained
i could tell life had changed
from the days in the field
but as yet
couldn't guess what i'd gained    

With the passage of time
i began to detect
the work had a rhythm and flow
What i'd thought of as pain
was a different plane
of existence i didn't know

Then
bit by bit
i too could see
that i was becoming
a Jewel
How glad i was
that i'd not escaped
those first abrasions
of God's sharp Shaping Tool

When will all the work be done?
i've got no way of knowing
But now and then
in the heat of the grinding
i almost think that i'm glowing

Just a bit perhaps
a shine, a spark
a twinkle here or there
But Hope
is what i have the most of
for i'm
in the Master's care          

No longer lingering
in the field
trampled in all the mire
On the Master's bench
i await His grind
and polish
to release the fire
that is bound within the Opal's vein
That sparks the Amethyst’s gleam
That shimmers in the star
of the Sapphire's soul
That sparks the Ruby's beam.....

What kind of a Jewel will i be, You say?
Who cares
'Tis more than enough for me
To be shaped by the tool
in the Master's hand
To know He has Chosen me

Curtis Delk Hicks (last name changed in 1991 to "Rose")
1984/85
(i think this is my favorite Poem
written by my very own self!)

The Grandfather
walks slowly
using his staff
but not
too noticeably

His cloak
once a
Regal Purple
with trim of
Gold and Scarlet
is now
just a shadow
of  its
former grandeur

He does not dwell
on the past
but occasional
memories
of nearly forgotten
victories
still present
themselves...

whole novels in verse
preserved
and translated still

Marvels
of new thought
made accessible to
the non-reading masses
through memorized songs

At first
he had to teach himself
to avoid the bitterness
of being shunted aside
forgotten by the very
“Arts” he had actually
opened the door for

He had hewn trails
of appreciation
in human consciousness
where none had
previously existed

With the passing
of ages
he dreams once again
of seeing a stirring of
Poetic desire

Painted Canvas
Carved Stone
and Music
will then hold doors
open for him…

Computer Children
dance in circles
chanting rhymes
that were
inspired of him
before the
printing press
was dreamed of

Now he sees
the wheel-within-a wheel
of his own path
the spirals and circles
that encompass all things
the reassurance that
even though
forgotten of men
nothing
worthwhile
is ever
left behind

Curtis Delk Rose
03-22-03 & 24-10-16