POEM: Oh Israel, Unequivocally State Fallowed Script Her

I have always admired the Torah and Old Testament perpetual reminders of “I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage,” and the precept, “You shall not oppress a stranger nor torment him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” Of course, it should not be lost that these precepts are revered by Jews, Christians, and Muslims — the “People of The Book.” In practice though, xenophobia and hatred of “others” infects every religious and secular culture.  The modern state of Israel, as apart from Judaism, as a Zionist project, is a colossal failure to adhere to such sacred scripture. This poem goes owed testament on this madder.

Oh Israel, Unequivocally State Fallowed Script Her

What does God demand?
Having brought you out from Egypt
Out of the hows of bondage
You shall not oppress a stranger or torment him
For you were sojourners in the land of Egypt
What were they thinking?
Blood
Let my people
No
Slinging mud
With no straw
Palestinian men
With no soles
Standing up
To Israel
Fare oh Israel
Manifestly Moses down
Turning bricks to dust
Water wee too due
Never fueled
Bye their lies
Food once, food twice
Then axed
What sup
Serving up shit for endless daze
As posed to the lored
Those unrivaled versus
Having brought up and out
Now heralding
You’re history
Lost
For 40 years
A mirror pre-amble
For a Palestinian Jew
An impassability
No way
Yahweh
In the can
A great religion
Now unequivocally state
Return to Egypt
Threw Palestine
Byway of might
As well
Be hell
And sum how
Torah new as hole
Wear truth is barred
As a nation cratering
Putting to wrest
What ever
Remains

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Compassion Dusted

U.S. President Joe Biden has billed an image of a compassionate man. With the demonization of Palestinians and the full-throated backing of genocide in Gaza, any image as a compassionate is bankrupt.

Compassion Dusted

Thinking it’s just
Biden time
For the fateful elect
His own
Kind
Better won on won
Than as a hole
A veritable political die-nasty
If you will
Losing the human race
As much as won kin
As fore tolled
Buy blood only
Compassion dyes
That stain power
Of abetter whirled
Souled to the lowest bitter
The madness
Crushing stones of the desert
The folly of crossing an ocean
Parading reverent warship
Withholding all water
Accept tears of enemies
Looking back
At a fabled city upon a hill
US wed to a Lot
Of a salt
Satan sculpts a smile
Fore every doody-full subject
Everything ails looking up
From the seventh circle of Hell
With every manor of weepin’
US delivering
A future
Dissembling entire peoples
Picking won’s genocide with care

This poem has a few metaphors that might benefit from some clarification. The seventh circle of Hell in Dante’s Inferno is violence. The last two circles of Hell are fraud and treachery. Just so you know what is coming next. America, with no small hubris, lifts itself up a city upon a hill, a biblical ideal. This propaganda is lipstick on a pig. Lot, with his infamous wife turned to a pillar salt for looking back on Sodom pining, was fleeing the city’s sin of inhospitality for wanting to “sodomize” a sojourner, a guest in his household under his hospitality. Like in modern times, many people mistakenly view rape as primarily as a sexual act rather than about violence/control and humiliation. Palestinians in Gaza are not free; they are under occupation. They are “under the care” of Israel (and US). Genocide, the lowest imaginable form of hospitality, is Israel’s and the United States’ sin. Compassion cannot be credibly purported in this explosive climate of madder and anti-madder.

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POEM: In Dig Nation — Ode to That Lyin’ of Zionism

The UN Secretary General has called on Israel to have a humanitarian ceasefire. Israel calls for his resignation. Mean wile, The United States is resigned to complicity with war crimes in the bombing of civilians and civilian infrastructure on top of a brutal siege depriving water, food, and fuel to millions. Ethnic cleansing is Israeli policy. The U.S. has blood on its hands. We can and must do better.

In Dig Nation — Ode to That Lyin’ of Zionism

The UN Secretary General calls
On Israel
To ceasefire in Gaza
Israel fires back
That lyin’ of Zionism
Lauding complete resignation
In dig nation
A bout
A grave Palestine
As rock it to death
A nation cratering
No nation
To state solution
Helled as feudal
Israel clings to a lot vacant
Posed hole-y-ness
Creating vacuums
That suck beyond belief

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POEM: The Broke In Heart

This poem is another meditation on a chronically broken heart, busted wide open, caught a mist the beauty of awe creation and the cruelty of the whirled. My heart poors into the world with awe that cannot be contained.

The Broke In Heart

I could see a potential vane-ness
In axing God
A question
Posed
By so-so many
Nonetheless, I found
Perhaps too subtle for any canon
And over the course
Of many years
God’s comeback peered to me
Soully through my broken heart
Choired a mist
Months of Sundays
Regardless
Wall-to-wall cruelty
In difference
Wherever the prevailing wins
Might go
And the beating doesn’t stop
And still
My heart
Joy springs like sew many weeds
And roguish humors
Come like a thief in the night
Beauty lurks
Round every corner
Even as the mundane
Becomes wholly
As sew much sorrow
Sow much joy
It is not a miracle
That your heart abides
With stand
A world of constant sorrows
It is not a miracle
That your heart
Is enraptured
Within a world of unreckonable joys
Sow what
Is a miracle
That you are endured to me
As won
Beyond safe keeping
A heart big enough
Too holed
Sorrow and joy teeming
A mystical combination
Open to awe
Securing your refuge status
As a broke in heart

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POEM: Low to the Ground

A phrase I use a lot to describe my daily mode of living is “low to the ground.” This includes aspects of living simply so others may simply live and playing the long game of generations-long struggles for justice. Also, I find that living simply offers “built-ins” that better align my interests and life experiences with those I seek to be in solidarity with. This poem is a tribute to this.

Low to the Ground

Some may knock me
Lo
To the ground
Every sow often
Pain forward
Hear
And now
That living one
Day at a time
In a thousand year plan
More depth
Then heights
Unlike giants
Sky high
Smelling blood
Grinding bones
Fore their daily bred
Not knowing Jack
Bean there
Done that
Now
I am
Happy
Eating beans for breakfast
Possessed
With a deferent kind
Of magic

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POEM: A Musing Clime

This poem is yet another playful tribute to the muse tossing down poems for the taking.  This poem adopts some imagery from Jack and the Beanstalk, albeit a less scary take.

A Musing Clime

Do you believe
In magical beings
Ahead in the clouds
The Muse
Reigning on “Hi”
Stalking that chasm
Of the soles journey
From foundations of stowin’
To that heavenly throwin’
Of untold poems
Topping awe creation
Beyond no’ing
Or fearing knot
And if still seams
Quiet passable
A summit of words taken
As unpublished words privy
Don’t no
Jack

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POEM: Engendering God

I have found at times that people seem more able to describe who God isn’t than who God is. Of course, discussing the nature of God at all is problematic. As I often say, there is only one thing more dangerous than talking about God, that is, not talking about God. My natural tendency is to consider God whether proof, but, I will just say that, even for atheists, God still looms quiet powerfully for not existing.

Engendering God

In our newfangled
And new mangled culture
The quest in is out
That hoary interrogative
Is quiet a parent
If God exists
She is a she
If God doesn’t exist
He is a he
He he he
Sow the joke goes
Knot knowing the nature of God
But halving a really good idea
Of who God isn’t
What an empty rush
And to fewer still
God is just
God

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POEM: Having a Ball

This short poem is a sporty ode to love outdoing chaos with an awesome attunement to sublime harmony and joy and by artfully wielding a juggernaut of creativity. Love is an eternally open invitation. Please feel free to RSVP and join the ball.

Having a Ball

Love threw the chaos
A curve ball
For awe to tend

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POEM: The Hole In My Well — Being

This poem is a playful testament to the wellspring of nature, both of the natural world which makes our life possible and the human spirit which has the potential to uplift life and awe creation. Of course, there is an awesome responsibility in this potential, and the outcome wrests with our character and actions.

The Hole In My Well — Being

The hole in my well
Being
Down to earth
Yet not of earth
Offering
No thing
As crazy
As a water table
Yet sow much more
Life a firming

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POEM: Superseeding An Other

Deathly war is an unending incantation of tragedies. While one tragedy may be viewed as pivotal, as likely as knot another tragedy will supersede the earlier tragedy in quick succession. Perhaps the only surety is that two posing sides will superseed an other.

Superseeding An Other

Perpetual daze
Sleepless knights
Mourn after mourn
Every won
A missed
The fog of war
Won tragedy
That fate full will
Superseed another
Anew rage
Hour grief
Is not
A cry
For war
To marrow
Nor fervent preyers
Agin and agin

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POEM: In Hospitable Missive

This poem was inspired by Israel’s official denial of any responsibility in the missile attack on a Palestinian hospital which resulted in the deaths of hundreds of patients, health care workers, and refugees desperately seeking what was hoped to be safe harbor. Notably, the Israeli denial overlooked mourning yet another human tragedy wrought by generations of military occupation, settler colonialism, and apartheid.  The Israeli’s quickly claimed the Palestinians blew themselves up. Perhaps, Israel should consider withdrawing from Gaza, if Palestinians are just going to blow themselves up. Amidst the absurdities of war, truth is the first casualty; most of the rest are civilians.

In Hospitable Missive

They sent a missive
An official release
Denying any responsibility
Hear lies
Grave truth
Their actions speak louder than words
Baring no responsibility
What sow ever
Truth is the first casualty of war
Most of the rest are civilians
And what remains
Fighting over
Deeds
To reality they don’t own

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POEM: 5.14159 [pi + number 2]

This poem is sort of a mathematical Shakespearean insult. Perhaps you’ve met the guy — know not Shakespeare.

5.14159

He never got me
But I had his number
From that very first meting
Like pi
And number two

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POEM: A Thousand Poems A Go

This poem is another tip of the hat to the mystical muse that passes down poetry from on high. Poems often strike in the middle of the night or early morn. The hours are odd, but they are integral to making sense of my life.

A Thousand Poems A Go

I have been impossibly struck
In the same plays
As lightning
My lode
The Muse
Cursing me with the inescapable
Tsunami of words
Undamned
Reckoning my whole life
Accrual mistress
A thousand poems a go

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POEM: Mine Blowin’

My mind is blown every time I meditate on the fact that the stuff our bodies are composed of, molecules, are so infinitesimally small that if the molecules contained in a single breath were spread evenly across the planet, then a molecule from that breath would be inspired by the breath of every other person on the planet. Likewise, every breath we take would contain molecules from every breath from every person who ever lived. Similarly, every bite of food we take would contain molecules from the food eaten by every other person.

Literally, what is mine is yours and what is yours is mine.

Mine Blowin’

Every breath
Every fart
Every apple
Every shit
Given
Every atom
Every eve
Scattered too
Fore wins
Apart becoming
The hole
Every breath in every fart
Every fart in every breath
Every apple in every shit
Every shit in every apple
Every atom in every eve
Every eve in every atom
Every fecund creation
Awe that is yores
Mine blowin’

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POEM: Blessed Be Our Creator (Not There’s)

In times of war or national revenge, demonization of one’s foes is standard operating procedure, necessary for justifying mass killing and destruction of civilian infrastructure, let alone civilians. This hole affair is all the more disgusting when it is dressed up in a patina of morality or religious righteousness. I have never been a fan of apologetics for so-called necessary evil. Thus, this poem.

Blessed Be Our Creator (Not There’s)

Prone to be boxed in
We had
Demagoguery
Lord it over
The devil’s made me
Due it
In this pissing match
Know longer
Halving moral judgment
Like a King Solomon baby
Or some upstanding whiz kid
So proudly beyond knows pick
A weaner of some sort of Darwin ward
Or mirrorly
A blooming soldier of fortune
Forging
Hire conscience
Passing out
Free wills
To awe those who don’t need
That is, unnatural selection
And there is
No other
Weigh

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POEM: Tension All Humans

If we want to be competent human beings on this planet, a founding document in our education and a basis for our collective life is the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) is a milestone document in the history of human rights. Drafted by representatives with different legal and cultural backgrounds from all regions of the world, the Declaration was proclaimed by the United Nations General Assembly in Paris on 10 December 1948 as a common standard of achievements for all peoples and all nations. It sets out, for the first time, fundamental human rights to be universally protected and it has been translated into over 500 languages. The UDHR is widely recognized as having inspired, and paved the way for, the adoption of more than seventy human rights treaties, applied today on a permanent basis at global and regional levels (all containing references to it in their preambles).

Tension All Humans

Listen up
Awe humans
It’s come to our tension
Weave been frayed
Far
Too long
Sew
Here
This
We seem too have
Misplaced
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights
Under a jumble of human wrongs
Pleas
Restore
To appropriate sight
Due you
Copy

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POEM: Epitaph Numb-er Too

This short poem, an epitaph, is meant to inspire, and memorialize, if necessary, awe of those shock-proof shit detectors that some are blessed to be endowed with.

Epitaph Numb-er Too

He did not suffer
Fools

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POEM: End the Israeli Occupation — Owed to the Palestinian People

The Israeli occupation must end. The latest in generations-long human rights violations and obstinate abrogation of international law must end. Cutting of water, food, electricity and fuel to an entire population, mostly civilians, of course, is a moral horror. No matter what President Biden and the host of American politicians say, there is no soapbox big enough to sanitize the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians by Israel.

End the Israeli Occupation: Owed to the Palestinian People

The military occupation
As far as won seize
Settler colonialism
Doing what won kin do
As apartheid ebbs and flows
With blood and lost souls
Of generations passed
Their security state’s
Humane lessen
Unbefitting a zookeeper or racist’s pet
The largest prison on the plan it
Open heir
A grave inheritance
The refugee camp is the bomb
Pick your genocide
How do democracies round
This flattened whirled
Axing questions
Like what grows
Without water
Without food
Without power
What due now
And however scarred we maybe
We no

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POEM: Bread A Loan

This poem is a meditation on making money, positing that we should make enough money to live but should seek to stay clear of the powerful drift and grift of money making you.

Bread A Loan

He sought to raze
That awe consuming quest in
The eternal versus
Of legal and knot sow legal tender
Too efface that unquenchable cache
Where silence echoes
And awe goes on requited
Is money mirrorly
A diction of just desserts
Some full faith and credit
That might
Separate U.S. and God
Know
It’s swell to make bread
Even kneaded
But not hand over fist
Just enough
To void the drift
Of money making you

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POEM: Tears in My Soul

This poem is a mournful riff on the destructive grievance politics of the so-called right. Of course, what is left is left, with love and hope remaining to knit life wince agin.

Tears in My Soul

Where divides multiply
As far as right from left
When unhinged makes cents
What is there to a door?
In the presents of ever-lusting crack
That elusive hole
Just an other
Day at the breach
Darkness too pitch
Avowedly blind to race
Cutting off cares
Trafficking in uncontrollable SOBs
As red to bull
And baloney to mete
Hurting for moral fiber
Emptying them bawls
At any accost
Oblivious to any alleged love of enemas
As disingenuous when it comes
As wolves to lambs
As wailing and blubber
In their revolting state
Aborting traitors
As if
Living from bred alone
Half aloof from won an other
Lone woofs
And accompanying blues rifts
Waiting for that looming breakdown
With a big “sew what?”
Purported men
Of auction
Worshipping the buy and buy
Comforted by the hear after
Of bidder tears
Having dropped a bundle
Of joy
And what is left?
Nothing in their mine
Aggrieved
And in titled only
Barely conscience
Of what put US under
A klan that desperately needs
To be surrounded by their mothers
More profoundly than any boo who
Milks it for awe it is worth
In the recesses of one’s heart
Wear the wrest is history
And in the mourning
Know right left
Awe the ardor
Shredding tears
In my soul
Easier sad
Then done
Know madder what might right
On the wall
Obliged to live
With what is left

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