"protestant" poems
‘…. and now, here’s Rick with the latest Market news…’
‘Val, trading was very brisk today, with a number of influences
that set the market off to some defined trends and statements.
Of course, the Human Virtue Exchange always seems to rely
on the volatility that resides ‘between the ears’ as noted
by the veteran brokers on the floor, but the sharp ranges
of prices offered versus profit taking has set the bar
very high in the relative value of Basic Human Virtue.
Now to the numbers: Courage [WHOME], Patience [PP],
and former market darling Perseverance [GULP],
all varied widely today on news from Washington that
their value was doomed to fall in the light of the expected growth
of Persistence [IAM] which history has shown to be a marked drag
on just about everything. Outside of the self –efficacy bazaar,
old standbys Ambition [HVY], Curiosity [WDF], Industry [HAHA] and Temperance [BFD],
continued their free fall into uncharted areas of cost and return.
Some analysts feel these virtues could be a real bargain in the future
despite their history of poor performance. Could a comeback not seen
since collapse of the Protestant Hypocrisy Era be in the works? We’ll see as the lack of movement in the Kindness-Generosity-Forgiveness-Compassion Index [FARAWAY]
leads many to believe that the end of Politeness [UPYRS],
Un-pretentiousness [ME-ME], Self Control [NWAY] and Sportsmanship [LONGONE], may lead to a complete miss-understanding between casual market players and devotees to the cause. The ratios cannot lie.
But without a doubt, today’s big winner was Self Respect [YUP]
which jumped and amazing 40 points before active trading ceased at the bell. So people feel real good about themselves for reasons
that cannot be explained by the Ego File Indicator alone; this causes this reporter to predict that Naval Gazing [MOM] remains a ‘Hot to Trot’ stock fund
and the Vanity market is always a good bet.
Now, here’s Carl with
today’s Human Emotion Exchange report……’
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also,with the church’s protestant blessings
daughters,unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things—
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
….the Cambridge ladies do not care, above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless,the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
7.8k
There once was a black man... Old at heart, he fought verbally and accordingly with bold words, which abbreviated and arbitrated great art! He spoke of activism. Not just racial, and economic racism. He fought against demonic injustices for you, yes, made me see. He stood for principles of non-violence. Acknowledged corrupt government
mileage, European knowledge and college. A philosopher, teacher
and preacher as well as a civil rights leader. When he spoke his words of fire indeed chiseled and inspired. Causing some to conspire and also perspire! Born January 15th 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia. Named in honor of the German protestant Martin Luther. Bachelor of Arts
degree in sociology. Making a mark in doctoral studies, systematic theology. June 5th 1955 This King married Corretta Scott in Heiberger,
Alabama for many to see. Proceeding with four children: Yolanda, Martin Luther the 3rd to be! Dexter Scott and Bernice to increase the peace. Despite the European police, the movements and stressed
protests, the silence, ****** and racial violence. The segregation and interrogations in force, instead of integration of course. Black mishaps, lack of differences in relapse perhaps! Plagiarized and slandered, demised by some of the wise. Accused of communistic ties. Blinded
by others’ eyes and of our world’s twisted lies. Montgomery, Georgia
bus boycott, 1955 was the year. However, forever in disguise, our fear of tears was apparently adhered. From here to near, also all those dear. Mere letters he wrote, from Birmingham jail I quote! From the slums, some of sums, hail and prevail! A creation prevailing into a deriving and thriving nation. Mr. King’s vision of a dream, mission,
opposition, optimism and truism, on our wars, welfare and more. I suppose this sounds honest and fair. Mr. King’s theories and worries in emotionalism, evangelism, humanitarianism, racism and socialism. Nobel Peace Prize won in 1964. Regretfully, you may have heard of this before. Government conspiracies and indecencies. Assassination
and discrimination, allegedly, by James Earl Ray. On April 4th, I
almost choke, because for him, his blood did soak. Some thought this **** was a thrill or forced by will. Others still procrastinate in hate! However, forever Martin Luther King was and still is one of the late greats.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
Because the thirst wouldn’t simmer; it ruptured cities into boils,
turned cultures into armies, an armageddon of cheeky stubborn Irish Catholics and thick veined Germans couldn’t imagine a world without their stout hearty headed pint.
Because white dry protestant angels thought crime existed in a vacuum, in a filthy saw-dusted saloon, the hub spawn of evil.
Because twice as many of those saloons were ******* by unlicensed blind pigs, not through free swinging doors on the streets, but in the domestic sphere; in the dark crept crevices of household sanctuaries.
Because bootlegging capitalist princes turned the industry into a stenchy liability with their home brewed distilled poisons. Alky cookers wrapped the commodity fetish and dubbed it moonshine.
Moonshine – spirits for the poor and blind.
Because this social reform was a moral reform lost in the oblivion of politics, lost in the timeliness of progressive spring-cleaning referenda’s.
Because the ragged, toothless class had to be scold, striped clean of their traditional barings,
because wisdom is everything and they’re spirits ran vilely wild.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
Aesthetician stares deeply into the center of a tulip
tears stream as we cry
but the earth doesn’t
ethereal spectors flow about religion
Washington did live in
a racecar, palindrome
*** Wisdom!
Meowth! I haven’t since the 90’s had a soul
estaban caresses his lover
his wife prepares
a pineapple
tapeworms infest
****** inside of a colonic protestant
whipped into shapely curves once withheld
by the likelihood ferrari
Pro-lifers are only just a fad or fling
cloudy like the soft color of pink
union between man and *****
Nicole smith I hope you go to
h
e
l
l
Awesome is he with a fatty
slimeball
foil wrapped burger
SASQUATCH GONE WORLDWIDE
Santeria love making ends with regret! Nay, Disgust!
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
About a mile out of town
Past the village in the mist
Sits a tiny Country Church
Not found on any list
It's for Catholic and Baptist
It's for Protestant and Jew
It's doors are always open
This church is here for you
The town is near two hundred
The Church a few years more
There are tales about this building
That are part of local lore
The church is small in stature
But large in who it serves
It's a place to go and worship
It's a place to calm your nerves
The pews are hard and narrow
Carved by hand you see
One has crumbled through the years
So in all there's thirty three
Seventeen pews on the left side
Sixteen on the right
Hand carved with love by someone
And all are painted white
At Easter and at Christmas
The Church is full as it should be
And as one of those who enter
I say, it's something you should see
The pews seem so much whiter
When the voices sing so loud
If it could be witnessed by it's builders
I know they would be proud
There are carvings in the church pews
Left by many through out time
On the second one in on the left
Is my brothers name and mine
The pews are worn in places
They've supported many souls
Who have come in here for comfort
They have come to be made whole
The one pew that is broken
Was fixed but once more broke
It was decided then to leave it
By the elders, local folk
The minister in charge then
Stood and told those who were there
"To fix what keeps on breaking"
"Wastes time, we could better share"
"Besides, look all around you"
"The pews, there's thirty three"
"To you, it should hold meaning"
"Think hard, and you will see"
"Remember, Christ our Saviour"
"Think of his age on his last day"
"Thirty three, that is the number"
"Now, think on that next time you pray"
"The Church pew that is broken"
"Can't be fixed, so let it be"
"It's as though it was intended"
"To help give strength to you and me"
The Church out in the Country
Will stand longer than me
And will witness many Christmas'
From church pews ...all thirty three.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
The minutia of cotton fledglings, I play them over and over
In my head, the most enjoyable, a layer of dynasty added to
The mallard kingdom. And a rocking horse swims across
Each pond too, its head heaves and nags creating massive, huge,
Undulating circles around circles. One more coat of gesso and then
Even I, in my speckled red paint Commune jeans, and holy holy Protestant tee shirt, I can travel the world; maybe even brush up on my
Cuyp.
Whipping through the sedge-brook grass, busting out, shooting Through the other mucilaginous nimbuses rolling
Outward first, then fled upward into the beacons of the heavens-
Shouting, whistling, oozing albicant heraldic pillars and shields.
Twenty more colours to mix.
Together, the mallards and ewes and rocking horse, and I;
prancing, little dots, filing into order. Where nursing
Against the sunken pillows of grain, I enter each round of
This papyrus jungle. Neatly folding my hands around each
Milky white shade, rushing out into the aurulent sunglow. .
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
It’s hard to intervene when people fight.
Recall being thumped for “bullying” a lad
Who’d harassed ME.
So hard to tell
Who’s right or wrong.
Who made the first jibe
Or struck the first blow?
The same with global conflicts too:
Irish Catholic or Protestant?
Israel or Palestine?
Communist Country or Capitalist?
The list goes on…
Best keep out of it if you can.
Do not make judgement,
Just mediate as best you can.
Preach fairness and conciliation:
Do your best to facilitate
Peace.
Paul Butters
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:33 AM UTC
there is an
old jewish hermit crab
spending his sunsetting years
in Boca.
after all these
years he still
finishes his beers,
but now he takes his coke
with cola.
he's gotten so old,
his heart's grown so sour,
that he believes himself
to be protestant;
remembers meeting ******
as a third-placing contestant
on Walt Disney's variety hour.
growing bored
with the Lord
he fancies the shuffleboard,
though he quickly grows tired
of being pushed over rough cement;
never invited to play--
he just came along whenever they went.
now he never thought
he'd make it this long,
he thought his heart
should have died from
being broken;
so he may not have
much longer in life,
but he'd like
to spend it wide open
so with polish for chrome
he shines up his dome
and makes haste to leave
his humble home.
he will sell his timeshare
--afer all, who cares?
and finally embrace
his freewheeling spirit;
--the West?
he'd never even been near it
well he didn't get very far at all
no, not even down passed the bar and all
when he was smashed by a car--
rims, tires, and all.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 11:49 AM UTC
This town is too small for secrets
The sidewalks are adorned with names and dates
Of couples whose love dissolved twenty years ago
While moss oozes out of the letters.
This town is too small for secrets
Through windows at night
The citizens play out their dollhouse lives
And dysfunction is locked away in grandmother’s armoire.
This town is too small for secrets
Where bars close at seven in the morning and open an hour later
And the tenders are purveyors of free psychiatry
Who put advice in bowls between stale peanuts
And place them on the counter.
This town is too small for secrets
Every hour the two churches compete for the loudest bells
But the protestant one always wins
And the Catholics having mass ignore its pleading voice
But whisper politely in each other’s ears
About the scandalous protestors out on Main.
This town is too small for secrets
With its coffee shops littered with youth
Who deny their wealth through coffee steam
And discuss the state of countries they can’t place on a map
And slowly leach out in to the frigid rain
Back to new cars and million-dollar homes
Where daddy pays the bills.
This town is too small for secrets
The college students drink their scholarships in red plastic cups
And scuttle towards their shared flats
Collapse in to bed too tired to sleep
Stare at the ceiling and wonder why they didn’t transfer
Three semesters ago.
This town is too small for secrets
With its gated communities of retirees
Where the homes are manufactured
And the walls papered with the smiling faces of clean-cut grandchildren
And the rebellious ones packed away
From the neighborhood gossip’s prying eyes.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
Mother Media,
Has strapped us to her highchair of lies,
And spoonfed us,
What she believes is best,
Despite our protestant cries.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
What is an American?
Is it decided by the timber of our voice,
the strength in our limbs,
the blood in our veins,
or the color of our skin?
Tell me,
for I do not understand,
unfold your thesis,
inundate my mind with statistics,
be it quantum blood measures,
origin or sociological constructs of the creature in question.
Tell me,
what it is to be an American?
This umbrella term,
I just do not understand,
is it to be a thief?
A country founded on stolen land,
and stolen labor,
sage bushed bills,
backed by gilded structures and systems of debate and seizure,
is being an American drowning in leisure?
What does this term mean?
I find myself confused,
it is difficult to quantify the qualitative,
and breath life into lifeless chiseled forms,
found in squares and plazas throughout,
a country split by hard wired ferocity,
quicksand laden dividing lines,
the vocal deciding what it is to be,
and what it isn't.
*Careful lad,
there is such a thing as too much,
too much individuality,
so put up your hair,
put away the paint,
put away that sign,
sheath your weapon,
old boy,
this isn't your fight,
and besides,
what can you do with a toy?*
I don't know what America is,
land of the free,
where is that?
I see only industry,
a dying morality,
drowned in ethics,
a protestant-core built on overt inequality.
What does it mean to be an American?
I can't tell you what it means to you,
only what it means to me,
and so I say dust off the document upon which this term was built,
and realize that the past is not what you should use,
just as anything else of import,
use judgement,
agency,
the ability to choose,
uphold the freedom that suffocates in the back of your mind,
to the flame inside your chest,
to the weakness in your legs,
down against the sole of your shoes.
America is a country founded on rebellion,
a little man,
underdog all grown up,
and now he's the one throwing punches,
a story paralleled by Davidic tales,
and though he may not be perfect,
and is often reviled,
I love him still,
his rough edges,
for we are still part of the experiment,
ongoing,
the American dream.
Though the gates may be weighed down,
the hinges rusted,
a country of sojourners,
soon a country of minorities,
cultural pluralism,
though flawed,
I like it better this way,
a techni-colored mirage of what once was,
and if we must meet our end,
so be it,
guide me home,
for is it not true that all roads eventually wind home?
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
Hand on the good book that I never read,
I swore my loyalty though you know I like to fib,
Even as your see the guilt gushing beneath my skin,
I’ve been holding the prosecutor’s hand, with another on the switch,
A spineless snitch waiting for the green light to fry you for what Benjamin did,
So sorry this couldn’t have been different,
But the chair only seats one according to our governance,
And I’m not the victim with a scheme preached as providence
So sorry for the inconvenience
But I want to feel the pulse of the pompous cease,
And watch the stillness of eyes that once blinked,
When they found the oval throne of a tyrant
Instead of the virtuous,
The one who was to lead us,
So who’s stopping me from strapping you to that seat?
Since my crime caused the scene
Since your fathers where the ones who put your sons to sleep
Coming from the cranial cracks of the insane,
Those that tried justified slavery while promising us all equality
I am the reason they put price tags on humans
And why this isn’t the land of the free
I’m the governor forcing your loyalty
Or I tell everyone you’re a traitor before finding you guilty,
I’m Uncle Sam’s mistress,
The thought process of social unrest,
When the enemy was a homegrown threat,
When Plymouth protest turned to disobedience,
I was with the Protestant,
I’m the crack in the Liberty Bell,
The judge, jury, and judicial jezebel,
The King, the colonial, the freedom fighter, the insurgent
I’ve once facilitated your independence,
I was your lust for a better existence
Since the struggle against a parliament
I’ve been dealing you an idealistic hand,
Since the election of the forty-third,
I am the notion that this isn’t the promise land
Like a revolutionary remedy
I am the idealistic ******
The enemy of our mentalities
The thought of defying the constraints this reality
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
My ancestors (i hesitate to even call them such)
came to this land centuries ago
they came with nothing
hoping to start a new life
but this is not about my proud heritage
not about immigrants following the
American Dream (Nightmare would be more accurate)
No
my ancestors
my White Anglo Saxon Protestant ancestors
descended upon this pristine landmass
like so many parasitic WASPs
injecting their prey (the people, the land) with venom
laying their eggs that would **** the hosts upon hatching
No
my ancestors
who helped perpetrate an ethnic cleansing
the likes of which 20th century fascists could only dream of
did so under the title of Manifest Destiny
divine right
their religion masking opportunistic genocide
No
my ancestors
laid the foundation
for the greatest country in the world
where ALL (White, English, Heteronormative, Cisnormative, Land-owning, Slave-Owning, Women Hating , Native-American-Murdering, Capitalistic, Perverted) MEN are created equal
No
my ancestors
partook in genocide
condoned slavery
oppressed women (and every other divergent identity)
destroyed the environment
and did so with such arrogance
such unheard of righteousness
No
my ancestors
were the lifeblood of America
the lifeblood of oppression
and that blood runs through my veins
the screams of American-Indian Warriors
of African Slaves
of Women labeled Witches and Gays and People of Color and anyone who opposed the hideous behemoth, anyone who dared to be different
their screams echo in my head
and i am ashamed
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
Paddy met a *********
at a Pedestrian crossing
with a Poodle Painted
green on Patricks Day
Pretending to be Catholic
but he was a Protestant
because he walked on
the Orange and got Bradley
injured by The Secretary of
State Karen a Unionist to a
Papal Propaganda meeting
in Portadown attended by
Paisley-ites Pronouncing
Phonetic Parables in Portuguese.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 3:24 AM UTC
Jesus wore only a robe and needed only a mount to speak to those around him. And yet his words, his wisdom, his divinity have lasted over two thousand years. But look at what has become of his legacy? Have you been to Vatican City? Have you seen the Basilica? What does it have to do with Jesus' core message?: Love one another. The collective wealth of the Roman Catholic and Protestant churches around the world is so massive that it cannot be determined. But Jesus wore only a robe and needed only a mount. Jesus would find upon his return a sight obscene: a colossal monetary worth of those who were supposed to carry on his teachings! Jusus would scream: "Sell all your worldly possessions! Sell the Basilica! Sell all the priceless and precious objets d'art in your collections! Sell all your churches! Give all your money to the poorest of the poor! Do you not remember what I did when I entered the sacred temple and found money-changers? I turned over their tables! I threw their coins on the floor! I threw the money-changers out! I found corruption instead of holy caring! What was my crucifixtion for? Pray to God and care for your fellow human beings. Do it in a vacant lot. Call it the Cathedral of the Sky.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 2:51 PM UTC
#Anonymous (1730s ?)
In good King Charles's golden days,
When Loyalty no harm meant;
A Furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain'd Preferment.
Unto my Flock I daily Preached,
Kings are by God appointed,
And Damn'd are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord's Anointed.
***And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I shall be Vicar of Bray, Sir!***
When Royal James possessed the crown,
And popery grew in fashion;
The Penal Law I hooted down,
And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my Constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.
And this is Law, &c.
When William our Deliverer came,
To heal the Nation's Grievance,
I turned the Cat in Pan again,
And swore to him Allegiance:
Old Principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive Obedience is a Joke,
A Jest is non-resistance.
And this is Law, &c.;
When Royal Ann became our Queen,
Then Church of England's Glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional Conformists base
I Damn'd, and Moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such Prevarication.
And this is Law, &c.;
When George in Pudding time came o'er,
And Moderate Men looked big, Sir,
My Principles I changed once more,
And so became a Whig, Sir.
And thus Preferment I procured,
From our Faith's great Defender,
And almost every day abjur'd
The Pope, and the Pretender.
And this is Law, &c.;
The Illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my Faith, and Loyalty,
I never once will falter,
But George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the Times should alter.
And this is Law, &c;.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free,
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I’ll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
To honour thy decree;
Or bid it languish quite away,
And ‘t shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep
While I have eyes to see;
And having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I’ll despair
Under that cypress-tree;
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E’en death to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me;
And hast command of every part
To live and die for thee.
1.4k
(n) Ebenezer
1. Summer-Fall
The hands on the pews beaded in Summer sweat. The whiskey
whispers fall off the praising tongues of the Presbyterian choir
filling the sanctuary and beating at the stain glass windows
that a bird hit last week leaving a crack and when the congregation
saw it’s blooded feathers we said oh, dear and poor soul and then
climbed into our pickups and minivans and forgot and left to eat
a Sunday feast of Mexican food and rest, Sabbath naps are Biblical.
2. Winter-Spring
The robin rotted by November but the frost killed the ground too
soon for the bird to be laid to rest back beneath the protestant grass
and stones that the pastor claims are as powerful and rich of a blessing
as the stones the Jews of old inscribed with scripts wrought deep with
pleas for rescue and wails for salvation and scripted too with reminders
of trials and tribulations because trials end and Christ will reign so we drive
over the bones of robins and grass, tires kicking up our own Ebenezers.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
Hegel’s Hero in Dream
Hegel’s Hero appeared with video of heroes
To teach me Ideas and dialectics in society;
I saw there, Lions and Foxes of Machiavelli
Fighting , growling , springing from bushes.
Aimless Dame Fortune moves in history past
Politics of India, snowy, foggy, and shadowy!
Shivering men squat passive keeping “ID card”
As Greek slaves, before the Democratic Lords.
General Will ,as Rousseau says ,forms society,
Nation, Governments based on Ideas extant.
Lords, and the wealthy ruled rudely the ruled
In the past, as history moved as cruelly as fast.
God’s own Universe sans universal concept
On Peace; builds walls around each groups.
Religions fail to link the parted and parched
People who worship vicious Cain and Mammon .
Marx, Engels , and Mao came with the legions
Stumbled, humbled and stifled by the Mammons.
Buddha, Christ and the Prophet Mohammad
Told of Love, Grace, Patience and of Pardon
My Lord, why, we fail to wipe tears and fears?
“Sambhavami yuge yuge” says hazy, Hegel fades.
parithranaya sadhunam/ vinasaya cha dushkritham/
dharmmasamsthapanardhaya/sambhavami yuge yuge.
When in India can we expect such a Hero:Kalki,in Kali?
To be trapped, jailed as terrorist protestant, really!
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
The Bells of Notre Dame called out “Come fill my Center Hall”
“Come Catholic, Muslim, Hindu and Jew; Come with no faith at all”
The Mothers of the Murdered came, united in their grief.
For bullets and I.E.D’s cannot sort us by belief.
One woman in a hijab had come here from Verdun.
Like the Protestant beside her, She had lost her only son.
Both were strangers to this place, Unfamiliar with the prayers
But, having no place else to go; They found some comfort there.
The Highborn and the famous came with those of low estate
Some came here to find peace of Soul; to put an end to hate.
Some sought shelter from the world; to find sanctuary.
But the figure on the Cross proclaims we all face Calvary.
We all face the same sentence; all perish in the end.
We know this evil must be stopped but know not how or when.
The Bells of Notre Dame call out
“Let us begin again.”
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
We paint our lives on color film
Absorbing familiar reflection
And we watch as we live
So little in color film
We love, we ****
We bleed, we die
Do we think God is watching?
Do we think we are the reflection
Why are we watching?
Mountain sides and Lilly beds
Prairies and the mighty ocean
Now held in our hands
Nobody is there
Is anyone here
What is everyone watching?
Loneliness painted in window sills
Plasma radiation gleams on
White, pictureless walls
Millions
Watching sunsets
And passions flame
Lust pervert
Warm golden skin
Radiates tangerine
And the lonely feel
Vicarity
Painting red
On Blank slates
And fill with vacant desire
Million of on lookers
Alone, watching
Watching the world burn
Watching mothers cry
Watching beaches sludge
Watching deserts snow
Watching brave children die
Watching brothers betray
Watching love fail
Watching countries fall
Watching debts paid
Millions of miles of tapes and bits
Project a millions of protestant cries
Endlessly, eternally
Do we think God is watching?
Do we think?
While we're watching
Bathing in radiation
Children don't know how to read
Live their lives on
A television screen
A whole generation
Living vicariously
Do we think?
Millions of gray souls
And avid voters
Watch angry men spout nostalgic redirect
Watch their children live their lives
Watch game shows and advertisements
Watch the six o' clock news
Watch police shoot children in the street
A million beautiful, lonely people
Watch red carpet vanity
Watch million dollar celebrity parties
Watch the American dream lash the
Backs of the fuedal and disenfranchised
Watch depraved souls sacrifice self
For the company of fame
Meanwhile children don't read
Do we think?
A thought original
Is there any thing left to believe
Everyone so sure there's nothing they haven't seen
Nobody leaves their house
Nobody can bear to read
Just watch the world slip into insanity
Ignorance is the greatest weapon
Yet all I see is guns blazing
80 billion dollars to dry the desert
Not a one for education
American families gather
Around their TV screens
They can't stop watching
They're afraid of what they see
Do they think God is watching?
I hope God isn't watching
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
Protestant stand,
pick up your cross and liveth -
in the East.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
She was the only Non-Native
On staff in a parochial school,
Reservation in Montana...
The school nurse,
Working in her office,
Fighter of colds and flu,
Coverer of scrapes and bruises,
Pre-medicine expert...
A little girl stopped in to say,
"You gonna come to Mass today?"
"No, I'm a Protestant,"
Just then another student walked in:
"You going to Mass?"
"No! She's a **********
Said girl one.
And so it goes....
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
They cry about heaven
Even as they transform skin
Into sin, punishable by death
Or **** or disfigurement
Sent by the devil for sure
Wearing tonsures and cassocks
Causing their own brand of havoc
Ruled by insensitivity
Because we are the enemy
No longer human, doomed
To suffer the ravages
Of their bad ***** training
And lack of discipline
Over and over again
On playgrounds as kids.
They did it all over again
When in uniform, warmed
By the glow of popular bigotry
Idiocy blessed by some dope,
Some Protestant proto-pope
Who thinks God has time
To engage in crime in his name
So they can blame him instead.
Little else in their head
They steal land, and brand people
Burn people, assault people
And do their best to make them feel
Their god, their way is not real
And is not worth keeping.
Sleeping at night, nobody knows how
Now that they have shown their colors
To their brothers and sisters;
That they will **** mothers and fathers
And babies and the land
And think it just grand
Because they got paid
As they laid waste,
Turned the gardens to paste
Between the toes of evil.
We the boll, they the weevil;
They mashed us under their feet
No thought of being discreet,
We were fodder for their hatriotism.
Not patriotism.
That is impossible
And totally improbable
Once you’ve sold your soul
To Old Nick and his minions,
Hell’s hand-picked denizens
Who look just like your neighbor;
They labor at jobs, like you do
And look a lot like you, too,
Especially if you make excuses
To commit abuses
And blame it on god.
Savor the rod
And abuse the child.
Isn’t hatred wild?
Always on hand.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC