Johnny Appleseed

The congregation, preacher long chastised.
“Unsaved though, as an infant, were baptized.
You must eschew your clear extravagance.
Your calico and fine imported tea.

“The man for whom I search throughout this land.
A man who like the Christians, primitive.
Coarse raiment worn, his feet remain unshod
upon the path to heaven that he trods.”

John Chapman from the congregation rose.
With confidence, to flummoxed preacher, strode.
Upon the stump that served as pulpit perch.
His barefoot square, fulfilling preacher’s search.

“Sometimes I preach unto the natives here,
not wanting to disturb their peace of mind.
Believing that I, by the Spirit, touched,
the hostile tribes don’t bother me too much.

“I never will, with woman, intersect.
In heaven where a better goal attain.
Attachments. Definition – purity:
Attention undivided, deity.

“With Jesus seek to serve my brothers’ good.
Like miracle at Canaan wedding feast.
The apples not for eating as you think.
Ingredient for cider that we drink.”

Psalm 2

My query: why the nations’ endless plots?
In vain the people tying up their knots.
The kings of earth rise up, conspiracy.
To overthrow the Lord’s theocracy.
Rebel against the Lord’s anointed one.
“His chains and shackles, those which we now shun.”
The One enthroned in heaven simply laughs.
Rebukes in anger, terrors in his wrath.
At their attacks, he scoffs with great disdain.
“My king on holy mountain I ordained.
In Zion where my righteous son now rules.
Inheritance, you ask? I give you jewels.
The nations, yours for all eternity.
The earth, its ends, are yours, all that you see.
With iron rod, the nations you will break.
To pieces, dashed, that pottery, forsake.”
Therefore, you kings, make wisdom your chief aim.
Ye rulers of the earth, I speak it plain.
Now serve the Lord, his rule, we celebrate.
The son, you kiss; alternative, his rage.
His wrath may any given moment flare.
Those blessèd ones who refuge in his care.

For Mercy’s Sake

To those upon his right, proclaimed these words:

“Come, you, who now are in my Father, blessed.
Inheritance, a kingdom made for you,
upon foundations of the earth was built.
For in my hunger, you, who gave me food.
My thirst, some water that which you provide.
I was a stranger and you welcomed me.
My nakedness, exposed, you covered me.
Was sick, in prison, even yet you came.”

The righteous answer: “Lord, how can you say
that we the ones who fed, who water gave?
When did we see you as a stranger here?
When did we welcome, clothe your nakedness?
When did we see you sick, in prison chains?”

Replying to them, these, the words he said:

“The truth is only what I may relate.
These things, all actions you, in fact, performed
unto the least of them, my brothers with you here,
then unto me you showed these kindnesses.
These actions, how you gained inheritance.”

Young Zeus, and His Nursemaid Goat, Amalthea

“My mother hid me from my father’s wrath.
A stone wrapped up inside a swaddling cloth
to Cronus whom she gave deceptively.
Into this cave, my nursemaid was a goat.
Dear Amalthea, how she kept me safe
and suckled me when there were none around.

“I’m growing bigger, now have diff’rent needs.
Not even will her blood give sustenance.
Her broken horn, a cornucopia.
Deprives her of her life, her blessed strength.
Her hide, I take, to fashion to a shield.
My Aegis, no attacker penetrate.

“Oh Amalthea, that you could survive,
a goat who sacrificed that I might live.
Into the heavens, we commemorate.
Not Capricorn, but Capra, are your stars.
Autumnal holiday when we give thanks.
An image of your overflowing horn
suggests that we take time for gratitude.”

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Be Drunk, by Charles Baudelaire

The only way by which we live our lives?
Vocation: state of constant drunkenness.
The only method by which we avoid
the dreadful feeling of the wheel of time
that breaks our back and bends us to the earth.
Maintaining our inebriation how?
Wine, poetry, or virtue as you wish.
We never ceasing in our drunkenness.
And if sometimes, upon the palace step,
the green grass in the ditch on which you lie,
within your dwelling’s mournful solitude,
you wake again, your drunkenness decreased
or disappeared in its entirety.
Go ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird,
the clock. These things that fly, that groan, that roll,
that sing, that speak. The question you must ask:
“What time is it?” and this is their reply:
“The time right now, when we must all be drunk!
So not to be the martyred slaves of time,
be drunk, a state that is continuous!
Wine, poetry, or virtue as you wish.”

Unless You Seek To Worship Ev’ry Way

Capacities are universalized.
The glossalalia can be induced
It’s inhibition only that prevents
our use of dance, to worship, exercise.
The visions, mystical, upon demand.
Deny that I, a co-practitioner.
No problems, singing Sundays in the church
so long as your demeanor is reserved.
The checks we write, our bundled energies,
into the plates they pass from aisle to aisle.
Your signature, the most revealing act.
The debit authorized from your account.
This place where we devote our energies.
A building where, the youth, we educate.
A hall where all these worship means employ.
These kinds of places must have real estate.
Unless you’ve sought to worship ev’ry way.

Hail Satan!, or To Screwtape I Aspire

Would give these answers for Satanic friends:
these better arguments against the Christ.
Those men with straw I stuff for tortured ends.
The measured value, how my soul is priced.

The arrogance a single man would show.
Are we not sons and daughters, all of us?
That to himself, supremacy bestows?
Belief in miracles is ludicrous.

That he would claim supremacy like that,
that to himself supremacy bestow.
and work the miracles we read about?
Just as in heaven, also here below?

He said no man but through him may approach.
He claims himself the gate to the divine.
The arrogance, my liberty encroached.
That he demand, with him, I must align.

The arrogance, that he would die for me.
That he create a debt that I must pay.
That he demand, in myth, I must believe.
He disappears when my belief allayed.

The infinite, how can I think of that
unless instilled in me from outside source?
The universe with me does interact.
That it directs me on specific course.

The gift of the divine it implements.
So insecure that my attention needs?
If that’s the case, it’s less than infinite.
Reality dependent on my creed?

The resurrection claim, ridiculous.
The miracles are too convenient.
Our science renders faith superfluous.
Believe what I do not experience?

Was Lewis right in what he wrote of him.
Conclusion wrong, but premises commit.
You take him at his word, the chances slim.
Or else asylum, place where we admit

as lunatic, no more this argument.
that muddle-headed sophomores always make.
“A teacher, great, a prophet with intent,
the many paths to top of mountain take.

“I’m sure he’ll be there at the end of days.”
Reject them all except the one I see,
when to the mirror I direct my gaze.
My only god is me, what I believe.

The many paths up mountain top you see.
If I would bow, each is a path to hell.
I won’t submit to any god but me.
And in the end, against myself rebel.

If true to self, would never be a liar.
Recursive nature of ontology.
My master, no communion, he desires.
The paradox in each cosmology.

The Sale Of Bumper Stickers Has Declined

The pain of living at the bleeding edge.
My mother doesn’t like my poetry.
She had a stalker back when I was young.
A diff’rent era, Nineteen Seventies.
He sent her letters, poems in the mail.
The writings of a nature, sexual.
I think that he approached in public once.
When all this happened, I was unaware.
She only told me at some later time.
Not sure if a restraining order signed.
Back in the age before the Internet.
My poems posted here no triggers, make.
My wizard mother, Facebook, doesn’t use.
The factor of my creepiness, reduced.
The sale of bumper stickers has declined.
Now in this medium where we express.

The Prayers of Amalthea’s Horn

No fairer daughters on this earth than Job’s.
The second set of children that he had.
Around his deathbed gathered siblings ten.
His seven sons, inheritance he gave.
To plaintive daughters, this alternative:

“It’s clear, their value, you don’t understand.
These items taken from my treasure chest.
Hear this then! When the Lord reached out his hand.
When fin’lly he decided to relent.
The plagues and worms, my body, did infest.
He healed me of those awful maladies.
Once my affliction passed, he called to me.
Three triple-string’ed girdles gave as charms.

“These girdles, three, now take them, gird your loins
As men for battle, manhood, binding up.
You’re jealous of inheritance they have?
The value of these girdles far exceeds.”

The three-stringed girdles to his daughters gave.
No earthly fashion, were celestial
in their design. As diamond cords, the light
flashed through them like a glinting rainbow beam.

Yemina, first to wear her father’s gift.
At once upon her donning of this garb.
Departed from her body, heart transformed.
As if she never cared for earthly things.
She danced while chanting hymns, angelic praise.
None understood the languages she spoke.

Kassia next to don the girdle gift.
Just like Yemina, her experience.
Her heart transformed, all earthly cares forgot.
Angelic dialects, the hymns she sang.
Ethereal, the space where Archonts rule.
The High Place has its own doxology.

The last girl’s name was Amalthea’s Horn.
She girded up just like the other two.
Just like her sisters, she transmogrified.
Ecstatic dancing, glossolalia.
The praises that she offered up to God.

When Job expired, and body to the grave.
Procession, daughters three, they marched ahead.
They wore their girdles, singing hymns of praise.
Unto the Lord, who rules the universe.

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I Am A Poet Ranked As Second-Rate

I am a poet ranked as second-rate.
Was Oscar Wilde who gave these thoughts to me.
I must pick either life or poetry.
I can’t have both. I must make some excuse.
What kind of life I think I’d like to live?
In honesty, I’m thankful for this pass.
Accept less freely from a mortal hand.
Before I turn my back on poetry,
a first-rate life is not to be assumed.
Are life and poetry both second-rate?
The curse that gnaws at ev’ry artist’s mind.
I am a poet ranked as second-rate.