"synagogue" poems
1
Backwater nymph,
queen of serpentine black tresses
flaunting its coconut oil gleam;
envy of leggy girls from the Western ghat mountains,
and lissome maidens from the plains,
who can never eat as much fish, even if they wish.
Wearing hibiscus flowers,
on coiffure like hood of a king cobra,
your coral lips silently speak
of hot peppery kisses,
waiting for me at shaded corners.
Your sultry body in me arouses desires,
that could only be whispered in your ears.
2
On a coconut lagoon when we met,
for the first time and spoke,
non stop, as if we knew each other life long,
I heard music in your words.
Oh! in the tongue you spoke,
I heard the cadence of a nightingale
ecstatic, on its wings above the clouds,
love had prompted us to fly above the storms.
Your gleaming coal black eyes,
like silver hooks, tug at my heart strings,
that makes music, only I can hear,
you are a free flying lark,
above Kerala's lush coconut coast,
that extends from sea shore to the mountains.
3
**When we relished steaming brown rice,
mixed with clarified butter,
with spicy tuna curry, tasting so dainty,
cooked in bubbling sweet coconut milk,
my eyes like two crazy butterflies
circled your face, a blossomed Champak*.
Mashed cassava and roasted squid,
melted on our tongues,
in a perfect culinary language
any one would understand without effort.
4
Your lips had cinnamon scent,
spice land's boons,
when we kissed we touched heaven
of scents and spicy tastes.
When our eyes fell on each other,
near the ancient synagogue,
the hay days of which is over,
a long jasmine garland coiling your hair,
marked you different,
from the the ladies of your neighborhood,
surrounding you.
How well you did pretend
that you have never seen my face before!
You have mastered love's cunning,
and all the wily tricks to cheat
the enemies of our fiery love
my Freudian mind perfectly understood.
Just imagine the brouhaha we would invite,
when we elope, in the last boat,
to Alappuzha, stealthily at midnight.*
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
And when I met that girl in San Francisco
Off a dusty little pier
with rotting wood
and squawking seals
And screaming bayside wind
She caught me off-tropics
and danced with the grace
of a palm tree
lines between the quaked
concrete
off telegraph avenue
On an obscuring Sunday morning
and no
she didn't go
to church or any silly thing
like a temple or synagogue
She said those were no places
for god
God was the trees
We smoked cigarettes and got off to each other's
carcinogenic practices
oxidizing a little faster in conjunction with hopeful
Formaldehyde
Deriding the formalities
of small talk and trivialities
She liked her guitars with nickel-wound strings
I with nylon
But I couldn't play songs
that sounded any good with them
while she could
and did.
and girl did it ever sound good
She'd laugh at the contests on the radio
while we drove on a half-moon
to half-moon
full and whole of ourselves
We'd stopped in the lobby of a cheap motel
And waltzed to background
muzak
wacked out of our minds
Sniffing in deep huffs of subliminal
divinity
Understanding
loving
that mind-numbing
monotony
muzak...
ppsh.
Who ever really listened to that?
And then she left
at the end of one fine winter day
in a cloudless sky I waved
watched her plane
skip off
towards the edge of a pale blue horizon
back south
to warmer climes
to wherever she truly stayed
The tugging on my heartstrings
chimed grotesque in
precise
D minor.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
A man must be knowledgeable, says God
For him to come in the presence of God,
He who has his male members dismembered
Or his testicles crushed whatsoever,
He shall not be permitted to enter in to the synagogue,
To worship Jehovah God of Israel,
says the deutronomical god of Jews
And today I am ill fated,
my testicles are crushed,
By the grenade thrown by a terrorist,
Here in Nairobi, an Islamic terrorist
Has crushed my testicles, in his guest
For the land of Palestine usurped by Israelis,
How do I worship you God of Israel?
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
Some times tremors of foolish wise thoughts,
pass man's mind like waves of earth quakes
across the muscles of unsuspecting earth,
to day one of the type has visited my brain,
i ask myself why John F Kennedy committed suicide,
with all the resources and riches in America of Kennedy's time,
The FBI, CIA, NATO and the shrewd Mozart, the security masters
of the world's vogue all guarding the Kennedy the president,
how came that the public imbecile had claim on his life,
money overflowing like the waters of River Congo,
into insatiable Atlantic basin is the simplest measure
of American riches that Kennedy headed at his time of demise,
full backed with intellect matchless muscle from study of history,
eloquent like the weaver birds of Uganda in the city of Mbale,
sending all packing in the likes of Nehru, Nyerere and Nkrumah,
perhaps subdueable in single phase to the mighty of Castro,
how comes that a madman killed Kennedy in the fullness of the day,
was it the invisible hand of the Ku klux **** Synagogue of Satan or Freemason,
the death of Kennedy is none other than beautiful suicide
or the active curse of fate, misfortune and violent death.
Why Nkrumah died out of power was political suicide,
his knowledge of the world set African pace,
towering mentally above all else in the chronicles of consciesism,
he stood like a tor on the African mountains against Senghor
Why Colonel Afrifa putsched Nkrumah is none else
other that suicidal politics played at helm of power.
why Tom Mboya died is suicide of suicides
to believe that reason can overwhelm ethnic sentiments
in a tribal consciousness of country like Kenya
in time of Kenyatta,
to foolishly conceive that Kikuyu can assassinate a Kikuyu
was Luo foolishness of that particular century,
it is Mboya who bought the gun that shot him dead,
it is Mboya who bankrolled his own assassin
he brought to the world political suicide of the century.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
at 9, my father took me to confess.
i crossed myself and stepped into
the closet-like space.
"bless me, father, for I have sinned."
at 10, my mother took me to church.
baptist. southern. the pastor spit venom from his pulpit.
they taught me to fear god
and live my life through christ.
at 15, my friend took me to her synagogue.
i sat with her family as her sister
recited text from the torah.
we celebrated her bat mitzvah. held her high on a chair.
at 17, my best friend took me to mosque.
we washed our feet and dressed in tunics
and prayed towards mecca
and recited words from the koran. we were placed behind the men.
the same pattern was played,
over and over again.
swear to whatever god owned
that shrine
that you would give your life for him.
and make no mistake, because by divine reason, it is a him.
and always,
always,
always,
get down on your knees.
and pray.
i remember thinking every ********* time
that prostitutes and disciples
seemed awfully alike.
and then i thought,
"they're probably right about god being male."
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
Modesty;
something
that
a synagogue,
a church,
a mosque
or a temple
doesn't have.
mosquitoism
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not ******
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
2.8k
*serpent girl dancing
on a red stone cobbled hill
ritual of
Leviathan
trident to the belly
on stained alters bleached
blood and sweat sacrifice
candles burning
from the bottoms up
dipped in tears and pearls
nothing she won't do
swaying her hips
rhythmically
while toothless mouths sobbing
gum her body
a curse of deification
necromancer
*** pact
gorgeous fornicator
walking under water
her heart like a diamond
player of the infernal tarot
creeps daughter down on all fours
eating ***** with her butter *** up
quantum jumping
doing the planetary bunny hop
on vacation in a fire red bikini
and la dolce vita sunglasses
shes a guest of the sage of pyramids
catching solar rays
reading
from the book of doom
and fake dogmas
lips like obsidian fire
that eat bad children
especially ankle biters
scryer of black warped mirrors ranting
singing in the Vatican of the dead living
worm girls kissing muscular arterial shafts
and ***** in a twist
while making vampire paintings
in dark ritual adorations
****
of
oodoo
voodoo
i
do
to
you you
plying your soul
with dreams
of
Hollywood
cinema
and headless swiveling
Bollywood
jitterbug
beating devils gory
with harrowing archfiends
and ****** heels
for
love money *** and combat
gods above
angels to the flanks
north south east and west
seventy-two demons below
a crystal floor of vice gripped cherubim
with steal shewed pentagrams
holding dominion
with golden ring
enclosed in a synagogue of will
she's my hot randy *****
in leopard *******
don't **** with her
she eats souls
like taffy
while posing
as a kitten
outside her window*
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
the kindness of Christian does not leave
the Moslem or Jew to starve
but in feeding both-
tell the Moslem
to eat in his mosque
and the Jew
to eat in his synagogue
for while this food is healthy and good,
for Christian, Moslem, and Jew to share
syncretism will poison
your Christianity
thank one another, but eat as you worship
apart from one another
Jul 11, 2021
Jul 11, 2021 at 8:12 AM UTC
*
Without YOU, I'm nothing
Without YOU, my world doesn't exist
**If you're there, I am alive
If I find you, I find myself**
You are my Mecca masjid (Muslim)
You are my Vatican church (Christian)
You are my Jerusalem synagogue (Jews)
You are my Banaras temple (Hindus)
You are my Gaya stupa (Buddhist)
You are my Khajuraho Parsvanath (Jains)
You are my Amritsar Gurudwara (Sikhs)
I wander to every place of worship
I read every scriptures and pray
I am pathos of your LOVE
Chanting your name
This is my only purpose of living
Only when you've gone away
I've understood my LOVE for YOU
Don't break the thread of LOVE
I'm delicately tender in your LOVE
*
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
Give me back my sheets!
You have stained them...
With your neo-nazism.
White pride world wide?
You are no nativist.
Sure Whites are now eight percent of the population,
but is race culture?
Catholic under those stained sheets?
Your diocese's came and made that road to Rome.
Albeit subversion of Americanism mutually.
And as communism did exactly what we knew,
by way of the Black Church and the Synagogue.
Have manifested Jewish rites in governance.
Made non-miscegenation taboo for Whites systematically.
Compromised national sovereignty for a global order.
All the while feminists have made the womb an ego for Moloch.
You say the Ku Klux **** is unacceptable?
They are nil.
Yet you romanticize the mafia.
Thank you mafia for upholding the unions, gambling and ***********
Give me back my sheets!
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
The year was nineteen forty six, the memories still raw,
Europe’s Jews were still encamped as they had been before.
True, they now had food to eat and decent clothes to wear,
But in that Displaced Persons camp, little else to spare.
When Lilly told her fiancé about her dream one night;
her standing beneath the chuppah in a flowing gown of white,
Ludwig promised Lilly that her vision would come true,
but in a displaced person’s camp that might be hard to do.
A former Luftwaffe pilot proved an angel in disguise;
Ludwig traded, for his parachute, some coffee and supplies.
Miriam, the seamstress, swore to do her best
to fashion the silk parachute into a wedding dress.
Some miles from Bergen Belsen lies the little town of Celle
Its desecrated synagogue would serve the couple well.
They made an Aron Kodesh from a kitchen cabinet
A Rabbi, flown from England, would officiate their fete.
Lilly’s gown was beautiful, the bride felt like a Queen
Within the battered synagogue, her wedding matched her dream.
Miriam’s creation would be worn by many more;
Girls from camp made brides in white that year after the war.
The Gown’s in a museum now, the bride now old and gray.
She lives nearby in Brooklyn in a house down by the bay.
Her lovely great granddaughter, her loving heart’s delight,
now has the dream of being wed in a gown of flowing white.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
Duke said,
“People pray in many different languages
and God hears them all.”
I’m equally a Jew and Muslim,
both living in perfect peace within me.
I’m a little bit Baptist and a little bit Episcopal.
I yearn to swim in the living waters,
and hunger for the cup and bread.
I’m more of a Quaker then a Buddhist.
Only because I’m American and I can’t speak good Chinese yet.
But Buddha’s Lamp is my constant companion,
illumining my every step in this dark world.
I’m also equally composed of east and west Indies
and sometimes even druid.
The Great Spirit and Tantric arts
remain mysteries to me.
I only know them by feeling.
And yes our Afro Heritage.
The drums, the whistle, the dance,
synchronizes our heart beat
to The Beneficent One’s finger taps.
Yes we celebrate The Holy Spirit
with cymbal, voice and drum.
I am a full dues paying member
to the 2nd Hoboken Chapter
of the Unitarian Universal Catholic Church Respectively.
We meet down the block from Sinatra’s Synagogue.
We are all apostles and responsible
for our small spaces that we rent here on earth.
I know I’m 100% Zoroastrian.
I am mesmerized by the fire.
My heart aches for the light.
I tend tiny candles
and listen for the lonely fire
of Coltrane’s sax.
I’m a nun and
a Thelonious Monk.
We run an inn for weary and lost travelers.
We build hospitals to cure the infirm;
and schools to teach the golden rule of love.
We try to do things differently.
Dizzy practiced the Behai faith.
“OOM BOP SHE BAM” I pray.
Music Selection:
Dizzy Gillespie,
Swing Low Sweet Cadillac
jbm
Oakland
12/26/98
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
That’s just a catastrophe
When I get lost and you cannot find me
When I'm a catacomb, and you think I'm a synagogue
Love isn’t what you think
It's not you ******** up everything I do
It's not even me trying to write about your stupidity
It's not my family, hating you ever after
Do you think we can have a baby?
Or can you imagine both of us as partners in crime?
Wait, shut up, am I being selfish,
Cherishing myself to death, blasphemously
You have to know, I am a boy
I am a girl sometimes
I am transgendered, but that doesn’t mean I cannot cry.
I can hurt you and the feeling will equal to your mother’s death
Zoanthropy, I can be.
Authority, Military, Nudism, you and me.
I can make you ***** and smile
This ongoing process I get every day from coexisting with your picture
Who the hell are you, anyway?
Do I already know you, felt you, grab your genitals?
Isn't that a pity, cause I still play the sensitive type
While I'm the ***** ad the pure prostitution
Ironically
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
Through His mercy we have survived.
Wrath sparing
Temple and parthenon,
Synagogue covered
In moss,
Castles ****** but unbowed
For us to
Remember.
Allowed us to keep
Corners of
Eden:
A bedroom wall slathered
In picture frames,
A front porch dusted with snow—
Fragments
We tore away with
Tears clouding our eyes.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
Eleven dead; six injured.
How does a person try to explain
The enormity of such a crime--
The inexplicable loss, the pain?
All were shot at a place of worship--
At a synagogue in Pittsburgh, P-A,
On what began as a peaceful morning
On a late October Sabbath day.
Early that morning no one could have
Imagined the horror the day would bring,
Even though we live in a time
When hatred seems to be in full swing.
It takes only ONE hater
To change the course of many lives
In a country where underneath
The peaceful appearance, violence thrives.
The president says that armed guards
Are what we need and not tougher laws.
He bows before the gun lobby,
Addressing the symptoms, but not the cause.
Helping refugees get settled:
For that the synagogue is known.
That was an issue that irked the killer,
Who was from here. Yes, homegrown!
Do we ignore red flag warnings
And turn our heads when someone spews
Hatred of groups such as Muslims,
Asylum seekers, gays, or Jews?
Do we ignore the poisonous words
That constantly drip down from the top?
At what point do the majority
Of people say: This must stop!
Give praise to those who strive for positive
Change with every heartfelt endeavor.
And hold in your heart the many people
Whose lives have now been changed forever.
_____________________
May the victims' lives inspire us all by showing us the power of love,
and may they rest in peace.
Joyce Fienberg
Richard Gottfried
Rose Mallinger
Jerry Rabinowitz
Cecil Rosenthal
David Rosenthal
Bernice Simon
Sylvan Simon
Daniel Stein
Melvin Wax
Irving Younger
And may thoughts of love and healing embrace the injured.
-by Bob B (10-28-18)
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
Driving the congregants
in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.
Parrotic tongues set out
commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
permeates the entireness
of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.
Command darkness to produce
light.
But you turned moonlight into
tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle
Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.
Righteousness afar from the
apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.
Pastoral advertisers of chattels
in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.
Disentangle faithfuls from the
webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
separate out afflictions from
feebleminded faithfuls.
Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
she asked him: why did you leave Edinburgh? and he didn't reply, but upon thinking out his reply to a deaf ear: because i didn't come here for you; 'lona 'lona, whisper sometimes, and i'll give you a cat's whisker.
i was in venice,
yes,
i drank absinthe the wrong
way
on a beach,
spent three nights in a hostel
with a bunch of girls,
took a hebrew girl
for a taste of tourism,
listened to the shofar
before i entered a synagogue
outlet extension reading
the 613 commandments
on a computer screen...
venice's pavement traffic and eating
pistachio gelato,
nothing much,
i still preferred the Gothic distancing
of Edinburgh's nights
where i could be with cold-hands
and warm heart inviting;
basically i don't like tourist basins,
or tourist wombs for that matter...
am i looking at something predictable?
yes, i am, a billion other sperms
will see the same thing
and perhaps write about it to insinuate
poetic ambitions - too clogged up
your thinking is to redeem yourself
in poetry - you're hardly dislodged
for the art - get a guitar and couplet it
for a star-riddled pop music hit,
go on, on your way, elbow push through
the queue... go on, on your way...
oh wait, you need clapping to spur
you on?
here's my clapping onomatopoeia:
blah blah, blah blah, blah blah;
yes, i was in venice,
didn't really care to write much about it -
i actually didn't, just now,
a sobering memory,
not the type of memory that gets
you drunk...
well it's there, a bit like the Maldives,
and it drives the delusion
that global warming isn't creeping
about the place like Nosferatu.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
Drive a hummer in Amsterdam,
protest their red-light district,
claiming Pat Robinson sent you.
Preach that marijuana
should only be for medical reasons
Hard liquor is great for your brain, liver
and all vital organs
Go into a Synagogue recite a Mein Kamf
passage
Meanwhile, triple cross your fingers, your toes and hastily
leave shouting praises to Adolph
Go into an expensive Italian restaurant,
whip out a can of Dinney Moore stew,
open can up meanwhile sing loudly "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling"
After all this, check yourself in because without doubt
you are seriously ill
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
Budapest
It’s an odd hour in Budapest,
that time when one finds themselves all alone,
passing vagrants who rummage through the trash,
searching for scraps of whatever and possibly some salvation,
I’d been drinking,
which I guess is good and bad,
coming fresh off of a philosophical conversation,
with an ideological Kiwi,
I couldn’t crush her ideological exuberance,
with my aged cynicism,
even if I’d wanted to,
because I respected her passionate optimism too much,
or not enough,
either way,
I was as alone now,
as I was before I met her,
except I felt lonelier,
because we all feel lonelier,
after having had the company of a friend,
or a stranger,
whatever,
it doesn’t matter now,
I’m several drinks in,
and I’m back at my rooftop apartment,
across from The Dohany Street Synagogue,
retreating into my writing which is where I find myself now,
at this odd hour in Budapest,
that time when one finds themselves all alone,
passing vagrants who rummage through the trash,
searching for scraps of whatever and possibly some salvation…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
author of The Poetry Trilogy
author of The H Trilogy
∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆
∆ ∆ ∆
∆
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Just promise to give the keys to the gates, but
Not only to Apollinaire. Just be like Jerusalem,
Opening the gate to the king coming. Kind
David is on the way. He is coming to the gate.
You are a holy person, keeping the keys to the gate
Of Jerusalem. Behind this gate, there is the garden,
Where is the apple the king wants to eat, he has
To consume. Fresh juices of life and being.
Before the dawn of Time, you were chosen
By the king and you have already chosen him
As well. You, a person from the Cossacks,
A post-Scythian phenomenon with Talmud roots.
You saw seagulls in the European north in
The front of the Tallinn synagogue, you saw
Seagulls in the European south in the front of
The endless sea, where Columbus started his trip.
You saw the seagull. You are the seagull. The seagull
Is in you. ”Yes, you are going for a seagull”, you said.
”The mystical unity with the seagull of Genoa”, I said.
The most beautiful. The most attractive. The most
Intelligent. The wisest. The most moral. The most
Feeling. The seagull. There is only the seagull, neither
The world nor people. It is a belief in the seagull.
11.2.23
Feb 11, 2023
Feb 11, 2023 at 4:52 PM UTC
At The Mall:
___________
A lot of push pull
mixed messages...
I love it says Carrie.
(The Jewish neurotic head).
In The Synagogue:
________________
Excited about D.N.A.
Developing plans to draft Goyim.
Charlotte's Predicament:
_____________________
Gave up Christ for you,
now living of the flesh.
Just what New York needs--another single Jewish girl.
Christ no longer the comforter, she wants the god of fertility to bless her
and her house: Mary the mother of child rearing bless the womb and its fruit. He's not all that perhaps she'll come back...
At The Breakfast Table:
____________________
She states she is no fair weather Jew,
as Bette Midler-esque (Carrie) plastic surgery head listens.
This new found religion she's not giving it up.
The Walk:
_________
Welfare martini,
religious mourning,
and Freudian synopsis.
Peter ******* Interruption:
_______________________
Quit job, hoping for a breakthrough;
perhaps questioning Goyim's worth.
Bed Time:
________
Money issues.
At The Bar:
__________
At a loss despite her Jewish brilliance; and
Freudian synopsis.
At Theater:
__________
Male homo-sexual companion and Charlotte's progressivism.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 5:47 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Democracy or theocracy
The choice is yours
What it’s gonna be
Take another look
At Lady Liberty
And ask yourself this question
Do you like bein free
There’s no doubt that
Christians have good news
But we here in America
Have the right to choose
Some may refuse to bow
Or to acquiesce
But they’re still citizens
None the less
Democracy or theocracy
The choice is yours
What it’s gonna be
Take another look
At Lady Liberty
And ask yourself this question
Do you like bein free
See we’re all equal
In God’s sight
He didn’t designate
The religious right
To rule over
All the rest of us
So in Him believers
Oughta place their trust
Still some out there
Are bound to insist
That’s fine for believers
But the atheist
Should also have the right
To not believe
So their pursuit of happiness
Can be achieved
Democracy or theocracy
The choice is yours
What it’s gonna be
Take another look
At Lady Liberty
And ask yourself this question
Do you like bein free
She prays in a church
And he a synagogue
But even the mosque
Is still the House of God
More than one road
Leads to Rome
And more than one religion
Claims heaven home
Still some out there
Are bound to insist
That’s fine for believers
But the atheist
Should also have the right
To not believe
So their pursuit of happiness
Can be achieved
Democracy or theocracy
The choice is yours
What it’s gonna be
Take another look
At Lady Liberty
And ask yourself this question
Do you like bein free
(c) Copyright 2015. Cedric McClester. All rights reserved/
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
"The pity of war, the pity war distilled" - Wilfred Owen
Somewhere in the after-haze,
Jesus sought Mohammed
who was on his way to see him.
Moses met them on the ridge
and without a mike or gavel,
the meeting was convened.
They fell to their knees in sorrow
hands cupped to catch their tears -
shed for the smoldering chaos below -
so far from what was meant to be:
Sworded and chain-mailed crusaders,
suicide synagogue bombers,
machine guns stuttering in Palestine,
fire raining from the skies
bombs igniting at the speed of death,
slaughter at a Parisian concert.
Fathers of the light rise up
from your lofty provenance.
Unite your tear-drenched hands
and come dwell within us.
Breathe healing truth into the ears
of every foe of love and life.
So much more was meant to be!
Come to us now
before the setting of the sun!
November, 2015
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC