Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

A little Electoral Troll humor

 
Troll Troll on the knoll
Surfing the internet
Big fat troll at the bridge
Collecting tolls from all who cross!
Don't wanna pay?
At the end of the day
You'll be roasting on a spit!
 
Run real fast! You still might pass!
And he will have a fit!
But if he catches you
He'll put you on a spit
And make you "feel the Bern"
 
Droll troll on the knoll
No sense of humor at all
Comes out at night
Full of anger
At everything in sight!
 
But if you can trap him
In a thread
He'll argue til first light
And when the sun comes up
And the light strikes him
Poor fellow, he'll turn to stone!
 

Christopher H. Holte

Sunday, May 1, 2016

Father Berrigan

https://static01.nyt.com/images/2016/05/01/obituaries/01berrigan/01berrigan-master768.jpg
I've been thinking of that Father lately.
I guess we are all connected.
I must have heard him
as he passed by my way.
He was calling to us,
as he was welcomed
into eternity.
 
When people talk about non violent resistance
they are describing paradoxical heroism
Not someone standing on a podium looking brave.
But someone facing real injustice naked and afraid
and offering up themselves as a sacrifice;
to a false god of injustice clothed as justice.
 
The purpose of non violent resistance
is to illustrate the fatal flaw
in this body of rules that styles itself law
to illustrate why unjust laws are unjust
by taking on the consequences and pain.
To take on the pain and suffering
So that others might be spared.
 
He took on that pain
He offered himself up to suffering again and again
To Broken bones, and broken lives,
To incarceration and arrest
To hard time spent in meditation
more isolating than a mountain top.
Facing hatred, fear and being shunned.
 
He broke laws to uphold higher moral laws
Taking on the consequences of his defiance
To Illustrate the awful reality behind the screen.
It takes real courage and sacrifice.
To do the things he did meant paying the cost.
To illustrate injustice clothed in invisible cloth.
Require the courage to walk naked into the abyss.
To take on a pain, as if being stabbed again and again.
To walk in the footprints of and carry a cross.
 
Father Berrigan was a True Christian.
And his memory is a blessing not a loss
 
Daniel Joseph Berrigan, S.J. (May 9, 1921 – April 30, 2016)

Christopher H. Holte 5/1/2016

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Sitting on Broken Bones

Here I sit, focusing on my breathing
Sitting on Broken bones,
rotting beneath my feet.
Bones that litter the earth
I fear they cannot bear the weight
Of all these broken dreams; the fear, the hate.
 
Am I lost in the past?
Is the future so gloomy?
Is there room in my heart
for healing and mending?
 
Here I sit, focusing on my breathing
Back straight, broken legs crossed
Is that meditation?
Lost in the present moment,
mindful only that my peace;
is threatened by these broken dreams; consequences, Karma, fate.
 
Is the present really so dire?
Can I rest and be refreshed?
Or is it time to retire,
and join my bones to those in the earth?
 
Here I sit, focusing on my breathing
mindful that my solo actions
Are alone not enough to heal the world!
to knit together the broken bones scattered across the world.
I alone cannot bear the weight
Of all these threatened dreams; the fear, the hate.
And I wonder, have I come too late?
 
I hear the voices of those who have passed.
They clamor and call to me. To us?
"Your dreams are our dreams!
Only you can transform our screams to peace!"
 
But here I sit, focusing on my breathing
Sitting in quiet meditation
knowing that I sit on strong spiritual shoulders
These bones are knitting and they will heal!
The dreams they bear will blossom and the bones anneal and toughen.
Loving dreams are far more powerful than any anger, fear or hate.
These bones will rise! It's never too late!
 
I hear the voices and the bones are rattling.
They rise from the earth and march across the land.
"We have a story to tell!"
"Redeem us! Save us! By doing what you must!"
"Redeem yourselves or we will never heal."
 
Here I sit, focusing on my breathing
Born on the shoulders of our ancestors.
Our families and our predecessors. All our kin!
Our great family whose love can heal the world!
Alone, none of us can bear the weight.
But these bones, together, knit together the world.
 
They say; "The Future is in strong hands!"
"And you are not alone."

Christopher H. Holte, April 27, 2016

"Ezequiel said them dry bones, now hear the word of the Lord!"

Saturday, April 23, 2016

No Bread Today!!

No bread today!
Just Matza!
Hurried ancestors left the city,
and camped in the desert to the east.
It is said they baked flat bread in a hurry.
And the Lord told them,
no leavening or they'd die!
So to this day they celebrate their freedom.
They escaped slavery
and ran away from Pharoah's whips.
Chris Holte 4/23/2016

Never let them Beat You down

Never let anyone beat you down!
Whether wearing jeans, a suit or a nightgown!
If they do a driveby let them fly by.
If a group rejects you, shake the dust off your feet!
Seek out people who will listen to you.
And leave the others be.
Don't give up on them completely.
Maybe yet they'll see.
But don't let them beat you down.
It's they who are pathetic, and you're not the clown.

Thinking of both Prince and Maya Angelou

Chris 4/23/2016

Friday, March 4, 2016

The Shoulder's that Raised us

The Shoulders That Raised us

We live on the shoulders of those who raised us up.
How can we turn around and hold other people down?
Today the sun will set, but tomorrow another one will rise,
We pass by as other eyes open and "I" live on.
 
Here a whisper lingers, and "I" hear an whispering song.
I swear I hear the voice of a dear departed love echoing on.
I have to stop and admire the singing in the trees.
the doves making their cries, leaves rustling high above.
 
And though my heart can only bear,
so much rising and departing,
still those voices echo an eternity in this moment.
and I see a vision of a single finger,
saying "shush my darling sleep."
"I am at ease and all your fears can keep."

Christopher Hartly Holte

This from August 14 2011

Thursday, March 3, 2016

Imminence

We live in this limited world,
where we can only march one way,
where each day that passes is lost.
And we can only progress at it's cost.
 
This is a world of bricks and stones,
Wood and rot,
Where every step forward is bought
with pain and loss.
 
But imminent in this world is a kind of transcendence:
a chance to participate in creation.
A choice between irrationality and reason;
Between tearing down and destruction or creating joy;
 
Those bricks and stones can build a prison,
Or raise a palace of the imagination.

In honor of Spinoza, Christopher H. Holte

We are not diminished

We are not diminished
Your love's beauty shines radiant like a sun.
She has shed a husk and is free to cavort and roam
Close to home,
yet far from this sad place under the loam.
 
In waves of imagination and the memory of loved ones.
There is a star that shines that should bear her name.
In this world, the world beyond we cannot know.
But If anything is transcendent, it is that loving glow.

Responding to a friend's loss, Christopher H. Holte 3/2/2016

Saturday, June 20, 2015

The Thunder is Rolling In

The Thunder is rolling in.
The storm is coming near.
It's been steamy quiet all day.
steam rising into the stratosphere.
Soon the trees will be tormented
and a storm will be here.
 
It's summer,
I should let the cat in.
 
II
 
Crack, Crackle, and then boom.
The rain has begun to fall.
A swarm of tiny drops
So gentle and small
I can barely see them through my window.
 
III
 
Now they are hitting the roof finally,
with energy!!
Drilling a steady sound.
But it is still mostly a quiet puttering sound.
The worst of the storm isn't yet on the ground.
 
IV
 
Will the lightning strike near?
Or simply pass us by?
Will terror touch down?
Or this be just another summer storm?
I don't know.
 
I could look at the radar maps.
And see the in swooping enemy.
Like Bombers in an old movie.
The Lightning is near and like daylight.
The Boom is like artillery.
But today I'd rather let it surprise me.
I'm already hunkered down.
There is no place outside my house that draws me.
And I'm up high, I won't drown.
 
I can watch the rain swoop over the mountains.
Watch the clouds drown the mountains in fog.
Or I can sit in my comfortable chair,
and marvel at nature.
 
V
 
What is nature?
Where is my Garden without the rain?
Would I love the desert?
Where the dust swirls
and the heat is never interrupted?
 
VI
The Storm passed.
Now it's quiet again.

 

Thank God when it's just a storm

 

Christopher Hartly Holte

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Tu Puedes

Tu Puedes

My love still burns bright with her light,
though her embers were buried years ago.
Like a single candle still burning in the night.
warm memories of her carry me through.
 
Maybe I can't ride a horse or be a brave knight.
But she sowed good things in my heart from knowing her.
And I honor her by living my life with integrity.
til my chores are done and my day is thru;
and I can rest beside her once again.
 
She said "this you can do." "tu puedes."

Christopher H. Holte

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Old Soul

 
Her eyes, just seem to know,
things she ought not to have seen.
Yet she wears such knowledge lightly,
as if she's been there before,
and is in no hurry to go there again.
One can't quite place how she could have those eyes,
that seem to see right through you to your soul.
Is she an old soul?
Or just blessed with some measured quality?
 
She just seems to know,
without the need to be so mean,
she just seems to know this world enough,
that her sweet smile is actually quite tough.
as to give an angry retort,
she can cut so clean, with a sweet smile,
that penetrates right to the heart.
You talk to her and you half expect,
that she'll take tea with your grandfather,
and send him off with sage advice.
But then she'll take up her dolls and go outside.
And do her tea with them.
Or is she communing with old friends?
 
Is she an old soul?
Or just a little girl with eyes that know?
 
Christopher H. Holte

Inspired by this article and the picture with it:

http://themindunleashed.org/2015/05/otherworldly-10-signs-your-child-is-an-old-soul.html

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Adio Kerida -- Goodbye Dear Love

My wife loved Ruth Behar. We saw her documentary. But we also had her songs. My wife loved to play our copies of her records, and truth is I love the music too. A trilling, lamentation about home, and lost loves. My wife sponsored and we saw "Adio Kerida" when it came to the Washington Area. But for years, we lived to the lamentation of the Sephardi, who after 5 centuries still lamented the lost of their homes in "Sepharad" -- Golden Age Spain.

The song:

Adio,
Adio Querida,
No quero la vida,
Me l'amagrates tu
 
Refrain Translation:
Goodbye,
goodbye beloved,
I don't want to live
You made my life miserable.

 

Tu madre cuando te pario
Y te quito al mundo
Coracon ella no te dio
Para amar segundo
 
Translation:
When your mother delivered you
and brought you to the world
she did not give you a heart
to love with....
 
Adio,
Adio Querida,
No quero la vida,
Me l'amagrates tu
 
Refrain
Va, busacate otro amor,
Aharva otras puertas,
Aspera otro ardor,
Que para mi sos muert
 
Translation:
I'll go look for another love,
knock on other ports
in hope there is a true hope,
because for me you are dead.

The song has layers, like all good songs from the heart. On the surface level the person is singing about a spurned love, maybe a child who is ungrateful, maybe a lover. On a deeper level the song refers to Spain, which drove Jews out of their country and brought to a close their golden age when they did. Spain discovered Gold, and many "Nuevo Christianos", some of whom were genuine converts, some trying to be both Jewish and Christian, but many of them converting only because the alternative was murder, wound up being the energy behind discoveries such as the great silver mountain of Potosi. Jews would look for far away outposts of the Spanish empire where they could speak Ladino freely and practice freely as long as they were quiet. And the Inquisition would pursue them to the ends of the earth. This song laments the ungratefulness of Christians, who received a lovely set of myths and principles from the Jewish Teachers Jesus and Paul, and turned it into a horror for Jews.

Taken from http://lyricstranslate.com/en/adio-kerida-goodbye-my-beloved.html

Reactions

The Song blares in my mind right now. And I don't even need the translation or to put the CD on play. For some reason even though it's not my wife's voice in the CD, I hear my wife's voice.

Joy and Sadness!
 
Joy and sadness,
Reason and Madness,
Are conjoined in this world of travail
Where we journey from hilltop to hilltop,
through vale after vale.
 
When we think we have arrived,
The host says Goodbye!
When we think we've reached a new height
We find ourselves falling down.
 
We are walking, we hope towards the light
Yet sometimes the light is too bright
It blinds us like the night.
and when we think we are finally arrived
We are done.
 
Christopher H. Holte

Friday, March 13, 2015

Oh Jesus

Mythical, legendary man
Whose sandals still leave footprints in the sand.
that none can perfectly follow;
...or perfectly understand.
 
Oh Jesus;
How the charlatans have played with your story;
turned you into Apollo, son of Zeus, even Ba'al Peor, Shamash
turned you into Logos, God's "spirit",
God's right hand man,
an angel at last.
 
The Charlatans have armed you with an AK 47
Put words in your mouth you never said.
Turned you into a blond, blue eyed, crusading madman
turned your teachings on their head.
Oh barefoot itinerate wandering preacher!
And people who follow those footprints,
the more their feet fit the holes
the more they are hated and vilified
and beaten on their souls
Oh Rebbe Jeshua!
In your name your brothers have been murdered by the millions
Driven from town to town, driven into cattle cars.
In your name they murder your relatives and their sons.
Vilified and demonized, beaten and demeaned.
Even the graves desecrated.
Oh Jesus!
And those who would follow your path;
Walk thinly clothed and barefoot
healing the sick and feeding their brothers and sisters.
Walking with murderers and whores,
Alcoholics and bores.
Bothering good Christians at their front doors
and getting killed by them!
Oh Jesus!
I suspect the Messiah walks among us!
He's: in the nurses at the Hospital,
the Fireman running into the fire,
He's a she, a he-she, a Man, a Woman,
The Messiah awaits the time,
When hypocrisy will no longer be.
Oh Jesus!
If you walk among us this day
There is a burning cross they'd hang you on!
The Reincarnations of Pharisees,
Sit in the front in the most comfortable Pews
Or preach anti-semitism on the pulpit.
Oh Son of David!
The world eternally waits for salvation.
 
Christopher H. Holte, 3/13/2015

Background.

Timeline: The story of Jesus is set approximately AD 32 or so. Paul of Tarsis' time line is circa 5 AD to 67 AD and he dies in Rome while Jews were in the process of doing the revolt they believed the Messiach, who Christians identify with Jesus, was supposed to lead. Paul is semi historical in that his writings survive, heavily edited. Jesus is both mythological and legendary as his stories went through a period of oral transmission, the testaments were also heavily edited (and as we find from Gnostic survivals were culled together theologically from diverse sources). The Jewish Revolt was from 66 AD to 73 AD. Paul's dramatic visit to the Temple where his disciple Timothy was stoned because the Temple Goers were under the impression he was ritually impure and not circumcised marks the break between Paul's line of Christianity and a Jewish line. The Jewish revolt would have welcomed a second coming. In the myth that precedes Jesus the Messiach is supposed to be from the Line of David, is supposed to do miracles, and one of those miracles is to save Israel from the Romans. By taking Christianity to Greek Cities and Romans and freeing Christians from practicing Kosher (the "old law") preachers like Paul were asserting that Christian teachings were a new Law that would be superior and easier to practice than the old one. Thus the fight was between Christians like Peter and Jesus' brother James, who believed that Jesus was for Jews, would be returning to defeat the Romans literally, and those who were grasping for a "new law." But in any Case honest historians and theologians admit that from [http://www.ucg.org/booklet/god-trinity/surprising-origins-trinity-doctrine]

The idea of him being "divine" was acceptable to most Jews. The idea of him being "God" or "a God" was not. A person can be a receptacle (behave so closely to the desired virtue that one's name becomes the word for it) or example of an abstract thing, but not literally that thing. But all this happened over time and not in writing.

"For fifty years after St. Paul's life a curtain hangs over the church, through which we strive vainly to look; and when at last it rises, about 120 A.D. with the writings of the earliest church fathers, we find a church in many aspects very different from that in the days of St. Peter and St. Paul" ( The Story of the Christian Church, 1970, p. 33)."

That intervening time was marked by the first Revolt(66-73 AD), and the Kitos Revolt (115–117), which depopulated Christian as well as Jewish communities. It is a period of oral transmission and of transmissions whose originals have been lost or altered. And so the "earliest Church fathers" rise in a Church that was divorced from it's Jewish origins for the most part. Indeed it was so divorced that folks who took the "Old Testament" seriously were persecuted as "Judaizers." In any case, that persecution also became the process of Christians taking up the anti-Semitic mantle of the Romans and Greeks.

And by the council of Nicea, Jesus had become identified with ancient pagan Gods, the very Greek and pre-Christian idea of God-head, and so notions like that of Arianus were considered heretical (Arianus):

"Arius, a priest from Alexandria, Egypt, taught that Christ, because He was the Son of God, must have had a beginning and therefore was a special creation of God. Further, if Jesus was the Son, the Father of necessity must be older."

Their solution was to identify Jesus with the Logos, or "divine word", the first creation of God, and to turn the whole concept of the Trinity into an esoteric mythical doctrine:

"as Karen Armstrong explains, "the Trinity only made sense as a mystical or spiritual experience . . . It was not a logical or intellectual formulation but an imaginative paradigm that confounded reason. Gregory of Nazianzus made this clear when he explained that contemplation of the Three in One induced a profound and overwhelming emotion that confounded thought and intellectual clarity." [http://www.ucg.org/booklet/god-trinity/surprising-origins-trinity-doctrine/]>

Now mysticism is based on the kind of meditation and illumination that is the origins of religion and really great literature. It usually IS in the form of dream or mythic language. Indeed the "holy spirit" is related to the Jewish concept of the Shekhinah and Kaballist and mystery religion concepts that are as much part of psychic, spiritual and "brain matter" reality, but are not usually logical paradigms. There is a logic, but the logic is more related to the wet hemisphere's inside our heads than the material world around us.

"'No sooner do I conceive of the One than I am illumined by the splendor of the Three; no sooner do I distinguish Three than I am carried back into the One. When I think of any of the Three, I think of him as the whole, and my eyes are filled, and the greater part of what I am thinking escapes me'" (p. 117). Little wonder that, as Armstrong concludes, "For many Western Christians . . . the Trinity is simply baffling" (ibid.)." [http://www.ucg.org/booklet/god-trinity/surprising-origins-trinity-doctrine/]>

Christianity was an uneasy alliance of folks intellectualizing the concept of God, folks using the writings about the subject to guide and teach in parables and analogy, folks wrestling with the concepts to try to make sense of them and come to truths about their own lives and help others in the process, and ecstatic, meditative/contemplative, visionary illuminations. Just as most great religions are, and as the parent religions; paganism and Judaism are also.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Sweet Sweat

For a Married friend:

life is sweet sweat when you're wife is happy,
When she's unhappy it's kind of crappy.
When she's around she can get on your nerves,
but when she's not you miss her a lot.

 

Still Broken But Mending

 
My heart is still broken, but mending,
Life has chores I'm still tending.
The sun when it shines,
reminds me why I'm alive.
My heart is still broken, but mending

 

Christopher H. Holte, 3/12/2015

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Canary in a Coal Mine

I feel more like a canary.
Been singing a warning,
been singing my heart away.
And my heart feels worn,
and broken,
 
My voice is harsh,
but I still sing today.
And when I'm gone,
that should be warning to you.
Because I'll leave my song.
Christopher Hartly Holte

Friday, February 27, 2015

Ignorant Morons in Mosul

Ignorant morons in Mosul;
destroying great memories.
What would they replace them with?
decapitated heads?
 
Gross Angry buffoons,
Knocking down staid, timeless women,
beating their alabaster bodies to dust.
Fetishing their fear!
Thou shalt not image your God
And thou shalt not image that which is merely a thing of beauty.
An object of the past talking to ourselves.
Not an image of God, just a lovely work of art.
 
Yes, thou shalt not image your God!
But can't you leave other people's images alone?
Is your head misshapen like a cone?
Is your blood sugar low?
Do you need to eat a scone?
Are you really that stupod?
 
Yet I see you in a museum smashing ancient things.
Don't tell me your prophet said to do that.
You image a God who is a hateful destroyer.
Can that possibly be the True God?
I don't think so!
Your image of God is smashed stone dusting a museum floor.
You are idolators of destruction.
Imaging a destroyed world.
 
Your image of the future is dreck
Your image of God is a Ruler of hell.
Ignorance is Ignorance, stupidity is stupidity.
You cannot image the ineffable one.
And who would image God as broken stones on a museum floor?
 
Even if you try;
You can't speak for God, or tell H-m what to do.
Either you are a dead soul of false faith,
or deeds speak for you.
Either you walk in divine footprints,
Or you tread on the divine with brutal stupidity.
 
We Choose;
Nurture a World beauty
Or break the world in two.
 
But you put tires
around the necks of the innocent
and light them with lies
that make your prophet look like a Barbarian
It is you who defame your prophet.
It is you who blaspheme in the name of the Lord.
Not innocent statues broken on the floor.
 
Maybe you are jealous,
that these images stood for millennia
While people ignore your PR profile.
Maybe you are jealous,
That man could create such beauty,
in honor of the ineffable one,
and that you feel nothing but hate.
 
Maybe you are jealous,
because in your delusion
you hear no divine voices
and though you pray in front of others
silence greats your pleas.
 
Maybe you are angry because
Your sermons on Friday are preached by charlatans
And your scholars are liars who see a path of hate.
 
Don't tell me that it's I who make fun of your prophet
You walking parodies absurd with pretense.
You don't speak for God, that is the real Blasphemy
I doubt you even hear him.
I hear a voice in the night and it says:
 
He says "what manner of stupidity you do,"
assuming it is in MY name.
 
Meanwhile a museum has lost an invaluable collection
to a bunch of morons.
Christopher H. Holte
http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2015/02/sacrificial-books-mosul-150227060556341.html

Morning

The Sun rose up
til it was high in the sky.
I saw new things.
I saw old things die.
 
Shadows spread,
then grew softer,
and died away.
 
Flowers bloomed quietly,
then faded to brown,
and fell to the ground,
 
Butterflies danced gently,
then laid their eggs,
and fluttered to the ground;
 
...and there was not a single sound.
 
CHHolte written March 11 1981

Saturday, February 21, 2015

Ode to Plutonium: Oh Fukushima!

Plutonium, named after the Ruler of hell
Invented in a science lab
Created in artificial Uranium hells
They call them reactor wells.
 
Uranium, Thorium, names that ought to strike fear.
Radioactive things that decay slowly, over thousands of years.
Til, tiny particles no one can ever see,
Fly out of atoms and strike them.
Then the fun begins.
 
Uranium, Thorium, can radioactively decay.
There are certain of their children who are dangerous and fey
And plutonium is a member of that game.
Plutonium can do more than decay.
It can break in two
 
Plutonium! made by the pennyweight, made by the ton
Turned into bombs, dropped on Nagasaki,
Built into armories, that can destroy cities by the thousands.
Monstrous Giant Spears of Death. Armaggedon's key.
 
Oh Fukushima! and we put them into water.
 
We put them into water to heat it to a boil
We sold it to the world, as a means to save men from toil
Plutonium would save the world
from toil and pain.
Plutonium would provide boundless energy
So cold northerners would never freeze again
 
But with barbaric idiocy,
they put it in bottles that break
And when they broke, they broke with mighty energy.
 
Oh Fukushima!
No water! It gets hot
Fuel Rods melt. Zirconium burns!
The storage pools are on top of the reactors
They melt and burn too.
 
Fires burn, hot and unstoppable
As plutonium and U235 do what they do
They melt together and each atom breaks!
That is what they did!
Oh Fukushima!
Scatter and burn! Each fission reaction releases a stew of children!
Plutonium becomes barium and strontium!
It "bursts" when a neutron hits it
becoming a smoking, melting metallic stew.
They call this stew corium.
 
Oh Furkushima Corium!
It is a blob, a monster, an ever burning fiery magma.
So hot it burns water!
So unstoppable it burns through the places man thought he
A Creature of nightmares and holocausts.
A Child of Hope and hate.
A man-made Demon.
Smoking into the air, dissolving into the water.
Monster Corium! Oh Fukushima!
This demon released;
That only the hubris of men thinks can be contained.
that erupted, erupts into the world as a spirit of death.
... and maybe end our lives.
Forming Hot particles that burn humans to death.
spreading around the world in plumes, radioactive wreaths.
Poisoning the North Atlantic, North America with fallout in dust and rain.
A statistical nightmare of Cancers, leukemias, weakness and pain.
It burns til it is all smoke. And it kills all manner of folk
Far from where it is released.
Oh Fukushima!
Will you kill us all?

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Devil's Advocate

I thought I published this once before, years ago. (definitely years ago since the sweetness is gone) Probably as a news group post. But here it is again, slightly updated:

The rotten words have a certain charm,
properly composted they'd grow a farm.
He phrases his words in sweet terms and reasoning,
advocating things he himself doesn't believe
 
Why would he do such a thing?
Is his intent to deceive?
He makes the case so very well,
That the smoke wafting up from hell,
the sulfur odor, seems just another garden smell,
despite the underlying rottenness.
 
He is playing the devil's advocate
But where is the heavenly side?
Where is the Judge to preside?
Where is the truth?
Where is the advocate for truth?
 
The devil's advocate,
advocates to find the truth.
His limits are facts. He never lies.
though he defends vigorously as charged.
Thoroughly airing the truth, examining the lies
puncturing myths, to allow the light;
Satan as God's prosecutor
 
Without the airing of lies,
there can't be any refutation.
Without the action of air and rain,
Lies only kill.
And lies, displayed as myths,
form a crust over putrification
 
But there are people who are the devil's friend
For them truth is not as important as securing the win,
Hiding facts, distorting the truth, advocating for the devil.
Such people are advocating for the devil.
With selfish motives which shred any pretense of integrity.
 
In a poisoned world of lies,
that smell will remain, tightly bound,
Turned into myths, facts pounded down,
Until the crust of lies breaks,
And it will emerge with a noxious plume,
that kills all who are forced to breathe it.
 
Evil see's lies as his friend.
Putrid lies and distortions, anger and conflict,
bring destruction, and misery that never end.
Don't we want the lies to end?
These Devil's advocates are the Devil's friend.
 
Can these people be saved?
Can he change his stripes once he's put on this skin?
Can he get on the mark after missing in sin?
Can be dionysian and at the same time Manichean?
Can his secrets ever be more than lies?
Is one trapped in lies,
when one subverts the truth?
 
If anything they say is untrue.
...though the rotten words have a certain charm...
....they are lies.
....and lies are death

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Pagans of Wall Street

 
They worship the Golden Bull
And fear the Hungry Bear
Their Gods are not our Gods
But when you confront them
You get a blank stare
 
They are the Pagans of Wall Street
More vicious than any motorcycle gang
But they sit in the front rows in Worship
And, pharisees, make a show of worshipping
The ineffable one
 
What do we do with such people?
Remind them of what destiny awaits?
They'd never believe you anyway
They earned their privileges
And all acclaim
What marvelous people they are
 
Christopher H. Holte

Inspired by Pope Francis (though I've written on this before)