The Return of Bad Poetry!

Just a quickie thought...

Some say the world will end in fire.

Some say in ice.

They are both wrong.

I say the world will end in asphalt.

Ecumenical Christmas Carols: A Puritanical Christmas!

In the spirit of Christmas and Christian ecumenism, I present this glorious Christmas carol, suited for orthodox Puritans circa 17th century! It should be sung to the tune of Deck the Halls.

A Puritanical Christmas

Deck the halls with monochrome stuff!

Fa la la la la, la la la la!

'Tis the season to be quite gruff!

Fa la la la la, la la la la!

Don we now our gray apparel!

Fa la la, la la la, la la la!

Burn the fool singing the carol!

Fa la la la la, la la la la! 

See the blazing fool before us!

Fa la la la la, la la la la!

He tried to be merry on Christmas!

Fa la la la la, la la la la!

Follow me, now, without pleasure!

Fa la la, la la la, la la la!

Christmas is for heaping treasure!

Fa la la la la, la la la la!

Return of the Poetry Session

It's been a while since I have tormented you, readers, with my bad poetry. Well, you shall be spared no longer.
This will be a somewhat ironic poem, since I am sitting in front of a screen. Oh, well...

Slave to the screen’s Pied Piper in a box,

Imprisoned by an image on a wall,

Held captive without shackles, bars, or locks:

A living, breathing, gaping china doll.

Sprawled on a chair, a mannequin now lies,

Chained to a shadow world with filmy eyes,

Trapped in a noisy, bright kaleidoscope,

Suspended from a foolish, flickering rope.

Unreal fantasias hold the doll in sway,

Snatching each wasted piece of life away:

The screaming image, blaring at full blast

Slowly entombs a brain inside its cast.

Another man through vision going blind

Another viewer melting in his mind.

Poetry Session - Lightning Edition!

I’ve always loved lightning; the raw power of a lightning bolt is a beautiful and terrifying sight to behold. Here is a very poor tribute to these potent and beautiful acts of God, and the powerlessness of humans before the lightning.

Lightning Strike

You frolic in the field, unaware,

Not noticing the subtle shift in air,

Then watch the wind rise, rushing like a colt,

Announcing the arrival of the bolt.

The day turns into dark, the rain pours down.

Rush headlong from the field lest you drown,

Then hear the very air roar in revolt,

Protesting the raw power of the bolt.

The thunder crackles from a cloudy sky,

The storm-lord picks his target from on high,

Then feel your frail body bear the jolt,

Endure the fiery glory of the bolt.

A surge of lightning ripples through the veins,

Short streak of fire leaving lethal pains.

Then smell your blackened skin, observe it molt,

As you take on the essence of the bolt.

Collapsed upon the ground, twitching in woe,

Rendered immobile by a shocking foe,

There taste the aftermath of every volt –

Brought low before the power of the bolt!

Poetry Session: Stressed Out Edition!

This is what happens when you have a pretentious grad student in a bad mood, panicking over finishing his papers on time, yet having a bit of time to himself and in a meditative mood. One who likes talking about monkeys, for some reason. 

I am a monkey on a stick!

Give me a coin, I do a trick!

I grin and clap and dance like child

Give me bananas, I go wild!

My cords are yanked, bonds to my skin,

I gambol for another's win.

A thrall to Master's every whim

I twist and kick and jerk for him.

And now I see with cross-eyed vision

Master smiling in derision. 

I squirm and twist to spare my life,

As my cruel Master pulls a knife!

He cuts my strings, and I go flat,

He drops me, and I go kersplat.

He grinds his heel into my face, 

He turns and leaves me in disgrace. 

And so I lie in deep disgust,

Until he picks me from the dust.

Another dance, another tune

A different ape, the same buffoon.

Return of the Poetry Session...

Alas, dear readers, tis a curse/To torment you with silly verse/But lo, the forceful Muse commands/And so I fulfill her demands.

Cast out into the icy dark,

To bed in a deserted park.

His goods in empty, tiny bags,

His clothing rent and ripped in rags.

Those twenty years of buried lies

Awoke and sprung a cruel surprise.

And now his bed is made of snow,

As he has nowhere else to go.

Come, woeful man, take heart, don't fret,
You will survive this torment yet,
Those tears you mingle with the sleet

Shall turn to rosebuds at your feet

And all those icy drops you shed,

And every blood-stained step you tread,

And every horror of this night 

Shall be to you your guiding light.

Poetry Session! The Valentine's Day Edition

Happy Sts. Cyril and Methodius Day, everybody!

Oh, and it's also that other holiday, the ridiculously confectionalized one. But like Christmas, despite all the nonsense surrounding it, St. Valentine's Day still serves a good and holy purpose to those who seek to love and obey God.

And as an excuse to inflict poetry on you! (Insert evil laugh here!)

O lady of my dreams, our hour draws near,

The time in haste approaches when we meet,

But first must come my trial of pain and fear
The bitter must be tasted ere the sweet.

For saintly souls do not in shadows walk,

And so the angels' staircase I must climb.

For mortal vision could not bear the shock,
Nor low and craven enter the sublime.

I hear your lovely voice in every sound,
In all my dreams you beckon me and call,
With every passing day you more surround,
And grow as I seek to give you my all!

Strange, is it not, that still we have not met,
But still I hear you call me onward yet?

Poetry Session

The marble heart is broken,

The flaccid hand is clenched,

The narrow path is taken,

The crimson gush is stanched.

Not as I was, but will be,

Not my will, but Your plan,

Not as I am, but as You see,

Not me, Lord, but a man.

Poetry Session

Farewell, my lovely queen I never knew.

I lived, and loathed, and lied, in loving you.

If fairest nature wrought her finest art,

Then fairest wouldst thou be in every part.

So fair, that for your hand a million fought,

And in the end, none won what they had sought.

Unworthy are the mortal men of earth, 

To those who bear the blood of royal birth.

Although you hold a million hearts in thrall,

But one you love – a king, or none at all.

I, with another million souls, desire,

Your golden throne to which we all aspire.

Alas, my longing for you is a lie.

My truest service to you is goodbye.

Another Poetry Session

Deeper, deeper in the mystery.

Closer, till it drives you mad,

Quicker, that the dawning shadow

Rends whatever sense you had,

Faster, faster, to the furnace.

Swifter into sight unseen.

Lower down the drop of darkness,

Farther now. What could it mean?

Stare into the light that blinds you.

Deeply, now, behold your own,

Dare to see the sight that binds you -

Knowledge of the great unknown.

Deep, too deep inside the temple,

Shackled in the sacred shrine,

From the altar strikes swift justice -

Endless night - the blast is thine.

Poetry Session!

I know of far too many people that think this way...

Litany

You faith-based believers are vipers and scum!

You're evil, depraved, and unbearably dumb,

You're hypocrites, hotheads who hate girls and gays,

You want oppressed workers and twelve-hour days.

You're bigots and blockheads and bastards and fools

Who want brainwashed children and God in our schools,

You're killing the earth and polluting the air,

And pass warming off as a fraudulent scare!

You put fetal tissue above women's rights,

Neanderthals, dinosaurs, loathsome dirt mites! 

And you dare to judge us! Now listen, you snot!

Matthew 7:1! Judge ye not, judge ye not!

Why Poetry?

Longtime readers of my blog will notice that I post a lot of poetry – and not all of it is good. Many of you probably wonder why I torment your eyes with doggerel. There are several reasons why I inflict my work (and up to this point, my poems have all been original) upon you.

First, I am a shameless narcissist. Most writers are narcissists, to some extent – anyone who writes, on some level, does so because he or she is proud of and loves to see his own work, and wants to share it with others. The artist cannot resist the sight of his own work, even if others cannot understand or appreciate it.

Poets tend to be even worse than prose writers about narcissism. And I am no exception to that rule.

Also, I love to write poetry, and know that I will actually write poetry if I am forced to. I have a million ideas swirling around my head – ideas that need to be developed. Under normal circumstances,I would rarely write my ideas down. But because I need to write for my blog, then I now have the self-imposed obligation to write poetry.  

There are two serious reasons why I post poetry. 

This is a blog on cultural issues. Poetry is in some sense the pulse of culture. Proper poetry comes from a strong and virtuous culture. Virgil during the Augustan Era, Tennyson during the British Empire are two examples of this.  

Bad poetry signifies a culture in decline. I defy anyone to look through a book of modern poetry and understand the poems that are written within.

At the very least, I can claim that my poetry has meaning. My poetry, technically unsound though it might be, expresses something related to reality. Many of my colleagues do not express anything at all in their “poetry.”

In a way, my poetry postings are part of my (admittedly feeble) attempts to help others understand that poetry is meant to convey truth – and that poetry that does not do so reflects a declining and diseased culture.

The other reason is because poetry can affect people for the better. A good poem with meaning can inspire and shape men and women for the better. Descriptions of various aspects of history are beautiful, and help others to better see the beauty present in nature and reality.

Our culture is currently shaped by music. Popular songs and music videos shape our understanding of life, happiness, parenthood, pleasure, and love. Music has, in effect, become what poetry once was. But the spoken word is still important and can still inspire many - and it is important to remember our roots.

As such, it is my hope that the poetry I post will provide insight for those who view it. I do not make a claim of masterwork, of course. But what I have to offer, I freely give, if you are willing to read.

And God willing, one of you, more skillful than I, will be inspired to write your own poetry.

Poetry Session!

Heretic

He stands, defying God and Church

Pope self-proclaimed, from lofty perch,

Demanding God conform to his

Perception of who the Divine is.

Half-truths he weaves for foolish men

Ensnaring all those whom he can,

Explaining, but with meanings altered,

Revealing sweetly untruths uttered.

A following he soon attracts,

With these then he the Church attacks

Accusing Her of false instruction

He himself spreads truth’s corruption.

At length his followers realize

They have been duped with foolish lies.

Men who revered and praised his name

Return abashed from whence they came.

Forsook by men, forsaking God

He feels the lash of divine rod,

Deserted, stripped of every mask

Men take the man at last to task.

Then he, first and last of his line

Drops dead defying Christ divine.

Poetry Session!

This is a fitting poem to close out this week's posting. It was written for two friends of mine - and it describes them very well. It also describes what a married relationship SHOULD be like.

One here stands, a lonely pillar

Strong and straight and smooth and tall,

Firm as statue’s stone, yet stiller,

Bearing, lest the temple fall.

One there stands, a lovely lily,

White yet red yet blue yet all,

Blossom beauteous in the hilly,

Flower feeling for its call.

One sees one, and one the other,

Two see one, both find a lover.

One steps forward, one responds,

Two engage, and then the bonds.

One steps forth, and joins the union

Three made two and two made one,

 Love unending in communion,

‘Til the day when all is won.

Poetry Session!

The dawn begins to break, the nightmare ends,

The gushing blood is stopped, the wound now mends.

The lightning bolts which rent a crackling sky,

The inner voices whispering the lie,

The wolf of madness howling at the door,

Their time is done; the nightmare now is o'er!

Now shall my restless spirit be at peace,

And all my doubt and terror swiftly cease,

The hateful haze which struck me nearly blind,

Has left me, leaving but a clearer mind.

Awake, my soul! The demons turn and flee,

Arise, your Master calls you! I AM FREE!

Poetry Session!

I think men often need reminders that if we really wish to follow Christ, we must often take the painful path...

A Darker Road

I see Your body straining on the cross,

And yearn to bear with You Your weighty road,

And long to join You, paining in your loss.

God, grant that I make walk a darker road!

A path of painful thickets, thistles, thorns,

That road make mine, though I am frail and weak,

That I may bear mens' hatred, jeers, and scorns,

And learn to suffer ill and still stay meek.

The via dolorosa that You walked,

Let every step I take with Yours combine!

As You were mocked by men, may I be mocked,

And may my cross decrease the weight of thine!

The torment of the valley makes it sweet,

To bear Our cross in pain and joy, complete.

Poetry Session #2

God never stops seeking our conversion as long as we are alive, no matter how often we reject Him. And if we wish to have our stubborn wills broken, He will break them. In that spirit, I present this poem:

Break Me, Lord!

Break me, Lord! My soul still flees Thee:

Still it burns yet spurns to see Thee.

Track me ‘cross ten thousand miles

Stalk me to the tropic isles.

Run my soul down until it stops

Pursue it ‘til at last it drops

Too faint to run, too tired to flee

At last at rest fore’er in Thee.

So close to You, yet so far still!

Shatter me! Smash my stony will!

I cower from You, still You come,

Catch me quick so I succumb!

 Go after me with all your speed

Your chasing, Lord, I sorely need.

Although I scorn You and displease

Always pursue me! Never cease!

 Hunt me through fire, briar, and storm,

Hunt me through ice, rain, chill, lukewarm,

Let loose Your hounds of heaven swift

To catch this fool who spurns your gift.

And when I’m caught, spur me to chase

Others who run the same fool’s race.

Break me, burn me, beat me down

Till I receive Your heavenly crown!

Poetry Session!

This is a terrible poem in a technical sense - but it speaks to the state of our culture well.

He’s Coming!

Tom Cruise is coming! Quick, prepare the way!

The heartthrob actor, hot and sexy still.

Oh, what a wonderful and happy day!

No way! Tom Cruise is coming? You don’t say!

The man who feigns so well an iron will?

One side, you stupid people! Make a way!

Hey, guess who’s coming? Dawkins, on the way!

He fights for science with such reckless skill.

Our town is once more honored, here today.

That man of genius, here at last, you say?

His head in realms beyond ours! What a thrill!

I need to see him! Move! Make way, make way!

The President is coming! What, today?

Yes! He has come to push his health care bill.

I’m going! Move, you fools! Out of my way!

The Lord is coming! Bend your heart and will!

The Sacrament divine is coming still!

The Lord is coming! Quick, prepare the way!

Shut up, I’m busy, damn you! Go away!