My Brothers and Sisters, Hope you’re doin well,
I’m here to tell you that you’re goin to Hell.
Unless you do as I tell you, you’re gonna burn.
So listen real close and hope that you learn.
No using foul language, or the lords name in vain,
Using bad words earns you eternal pain.
You should always be pure, you should always be clean
and, unless it’s to heathens, you should never be mean.
You mustn’t sleep in, you mustn’t cut class,
and “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s ass!”
Don’t worship false gods, and don’t worship idols,
the thing you should worship is this leather bound Bible.
No wearing short skirts, they should cover your toe,
(bare skin is the work of the devil you know.)
No sex with a girlfriend, no sex that is queer,
no sex with yourself, and no sex in the rear.
No sex using toys, no sex with your mouth,
We have laws against that, down here in the south.
No rock and roll music, no ska, rap, or punk.
Good Christians don’t listen to that kind of junk.
So now I’ll be straight, and now I’ll be level,
I’ll tell you right who’s gone to fry with the devil.
Hey Catholic! You’re dammed! and so are you Jew!
God burns Buddhists and Moslems, and atheists too.
Those who don’t eat their beans, those who watch the “X-Files”
Those who saw “Armageddon”, they will lose Heaven’s trial.
If you don’t like Swiss cheese, or the color blue-green,
if you don’t own a cross, or a sewing machine,
Oh Lord it is true, I finally see,
They’re all damned to hell, unless they think just like me.

Here's a poem of my own, which is of a totally opposite nature and delivery. ("And now for something completely different...") It's not really a poem: more a prose, if I use the term correctly, and an attempt at a conceit. I wrote this in high school, by-the-way, so without further exposition...

You toss me about like a ship at sea. When you have me, I am without direction. I am
simply moved by a force greater than myself.

I spread sails like the boat. I want to catch you. But am I really catching you? Or do I want to be caught by you?

My seas were quiet until I was caught, and now I am motivated? moved? inspired? How much can words describe of the ways a wind propels a ship?

The seas around me become a blur. I speed over them and they do not matter. Only when
the wind is gone must I look about the rough, dark, and depthless ocean.

As a ship, I care about
the results of your presence.

But winds must do so many things.

Wear down the beaches, make the trees fall, produce that beautiful sound of your mere
passing through.

But do you notice how you propel me? Can you even, like I do?

And if you do not notice, can you possibly care?

You can get to it, though, by going to: http://www.plastic-castle.com/tom/ and clicking on the books.

_Helios_

Upon horizon's bosom blue
Thy throne is set.
As scholars deem Thy streaming rays
Thine epithet.

I marvel at Thy warmth and care,
This lovely place.
They curse the light forbidding them
To see Thy face.

Through darkness, mists, and bitterness,
Thy seed has won-
Over men who gaze at stars,
Yet miss the Sun.

_He's Still There_

Me and Mama sat beside the fireplace on night,
Watching cabin shadows flickering with firelight.
Papa still was up in the West Coulee moving stock,
So it was me and Mama - chittin, chattin, women talk.

I asked her "Mama, sometime I been thinkin' long an' deep-
You think a man's still out there for me, dreamin' in his sleep?
You think he wakes and works the cattle, rides along the range,
A simple country fella, not conceited, proud, or strange?"

My mama smiled and years of sunlight showed upon her cheek,
She said "Darlin' he's there somewhere for ya, humble, good and meek.
He may not be a flashy fella, may not wear a tie,
But I guarantee he'll love ya darlin', till the day he die."

Salty drops of tears rolled down my mama's face and mine,
"Mama, I just hope to God he's there for me to find.
I hope he's willin' not to have the purtiest of faces,
But just a good ol' country girl from good ol' country places."

Before we came to earth to dwell
and took upon us mortal clay
each child of God unblemished stood
and all in perfect beauty stayed.

There were no broken minds or forms
no shackles dull to weigh us down,
no twisted limbs, nor clouded eyes,
no lonely ears in silence bound.

Man is not just his mortal form
full more than half his stature hides
where we must search to find it out-
search with hearts and not our eyes.

Look close and catch a glimps or two
of brother, sister, child divine
and you shall be so richly blessed
to find within dear friends of thine.

So hand in hand as we go forth
let's gather each one heart by heart
and strength on strength shall love encrease
til fear and loathing must depart.

This is one of my favorites.

JUST ANOTHER LOVE POEM

This is a love poem
You know I hate reading love poems
and hate writing them even more.
But I know you like them.
So here goes.

I love you.

There, I've said it.

We're from two different worlds.
Someone says Nirvana, I think Seattle, you think Sidhartha
(whoever he is)

I call you up at 2 a.m. and you listen.
When I forget your birthday, you pretend it dosn't bother you,
even though I know it does.

You like walking on the beach.
And whenever I'm broke (which is often) you loan me money,
knowing full well that I'll probably never get it back to you.

It drives you crazy when I buy your ticket for you.
And when that cop thought I was drunk because I was going 90 down Hwy. 17 blowing bubbles and singing campfire songs in Russian, you backed me up all the way.

You act like you like my taste in music and movies.
We borrow from each other, never expecting to get our stuff back,
except maybe as a last minute birthday gift.

You'll shoot a look across the room, confidant that I know what you're thinking,
(I rarely do, but I appreciate it anyway).
If I'm ranting and raving about something pointless,
you know that if you just stay quiet, I'll bore myself out of it.

So there you are. Here's your stinking love poem.
You put up with me, and I love you for it.
And that's it. I've just bled out all available romantic emotion.
This more than exceeds my mushiness quocient for the day.
Hope you're happy.

****************

CRANKY PEOPLE

Cranky people aren't much fun!
They go stomp, stomp, stomp
Waaah, Waaah, Waaah
Whine, Whine, Whine!
Cranky people are no fun at all!

They COULD run around and play
or smile through the day.
They COULD laugh and jump and run
Happy people are lots of fun!

But cranky people have forgotten.
They're stuck in a mood of being rotten!
Cranky people are no fun at all!

So how can we make them happy?
What will make them smile?
Perhaps a hug and a kiss
or playing with them a while.
A surprise tickle attack can do the trick.
But whatever it is - do it quick!
Because cranky people aren't much fun!

Hope you adults can stomach it, and if you have any 3 or 4 year olds, exaggerate the obvious movements and it works every time!

Someday
Ages and ages hence
When you finally know what it is
You were fighting
for

You will
Remember this day
And know what I meant when I say
We've already won
the

Pickled in fomaldehyde of envy
Blackened in the iodine of pride
Skewered on the scalpel of your vengeance
Store your tissue samples in the file

But...

Before you touch a warm and living heart
Kindly wash that poison off your hands.

Since the first was receive well, I guess i can share another. Tell me what you think of this one.

Ode to the Wild Iris

Amid the wild and rocky ways
You lift your fragile, pallid face
Strength belied by a slender form
In poorest soil you bloom with grace

Before the rain and windy storm
You bend and dance, submissive - meek
Or trodden down by passing foot,
You rise again in beauty sweet

Uncle Orson, I like your poem “Under the Chorister’s Baton.” I couldn’t help but think, as I read it, “Yes, that’s exactly how it is sometimes.” And one can hope that as he continues to ‘go through the motion, acting on faith,’ he’ll get the fire back? I was glad I got to attend your lecture at the U of U on Sept. 12th. You mentioned there that you like to write poetry. I don’t know why I was surprised by that, but it’s always nice to discover a new dimension to an author I like.

“Uncensored” – Lara, nice work. Well, it’s not a “nice” poem, is it? (We’ll leave that to the Joyce Killmer types.) But it strikes some chords. Well done.

Oh! Great masteroftheobvious, < picture a guy genuflecting with his arms extended over his head > “Youth” is a wonderful poem. I bow to your imagery and skill. It carried me back to many a night of stargazing. And the last five lines border on the sublime. Oh heck, what am I saying? It crosses over the border! I’m going to add your poem to my scrapbook of favorite verse.

“If I Ran the Afterlife” – Thomas J., I laughed and chuckled through the whole thing. We’re both going to hell for this, you know. Thanks a lot.

Annie, I really like “Helios,” and I’m sure I haven’t understood it’s full richness yet with just a couple of readings. I need to think about this somemore. But tell me this: Is it metaphors for the Son of God? (Is “metaphor” or “allegory” the correct word?) “He’s Still There” is sweet.

Ducky, I’m adding your “Before we came to earth to dwell” to my favorites also. I think it stacks up well with William Wordsworth. I read somewhere that it is one of the tasks of poets, to subdue the rhyme so it does not jangle and such. You have done beautifully there. I hope I can learn to do it even half as well. It is musical. (By the way, what is it’s title?)

I do write serious stuff but I thought that in honor (or maybe dishonor) of the World Series, I’d post a parody I wrote during the big old hairy baseball strike several years ago. I figure there are few poems so bad you can’t at least make them worse by using them for parody. By the way, Wayde, I submitted this to Mad Magazine, but they sent it back wrapped around a rock, saying, “We are a visual medium, but keep trying.” So I don’t know if it stunk bad or if they just didn’t need it at the time. I do know that it doesn’t lack for satire.

WARNING! If you hate parody and/or you think baseball is the only true and living sport, don’t read this parody. If you choose to read it and then feel a desire to have me put to death, just remember -- YOU WERE WARNED.

CASEY ON THE MAT
(with apologies to Ernest Thayer)

The camera's eye is on him as he saunters to the plate.
He rolls his head and pulls and tugs till all his clothes are straight.
He taps the plate but steps away . . . (he's got all afternoon)
And all the fans can only hope there'll be some action soon.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he looks around,
And now the batter swings a few, and spits upon the ground.
And now the pitcher scuffs the dirt, and still he's holding on.
And now the air is shattered by a loud collective yawn.

In the midst of this exciting sport the players said, "See here,
"We're just so great no way we're livin’ on six million bucks a year!"
Straight to the bargaining table these mighty Caseys sped.
"Tough beans," said the owners. "We'll strike!" the players said.

So, as the money slipped away--a seasons worth or more--
You'd think that someone would get wise and end this strike before
The fans begin to wonder why they ever paid to watch
Some yahoo spitting on the ground and digging at his crotch.

Oh somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The fans are spending somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And some are losing sponsors' dough, and somewhere players pout.
Since fans have learned there's more to life--mighty Baseball has struck out.

Mention love to me
I'll try to find meaning in the moment
Seeking words from you
That I cannot unbidden pronounce
To myself
Let alone share
As a topic
As an idea

Mention me to me
What you see in me
Casually
I find a meaning to hold onto
And pass it back playfully

Seeking words from you
Because I cannot unbidden pursue
Your sweet company

I feel tied down by my fear
Thrown there by my pleading voice-
Forced still
And left waiting, Wanting
To rise and be greeted in the open

My existence made okay by your eye
That won't look away
But that will hold steady
Until I cannot do anything but move

Thank you for your gracious praise. You made my day! As yet, I have not named that poem.

Now, for all you Dr. Suess fans out there(or should I have said, "Sorry to all you Dr. Suess fans out there.") Here is another tasty parody to munch on.

FRIED EGGS AND HAM

That Sam-I-am!
That Sam-I-am!
I do not like that Sam-I-am!

"Do you like fried eggs and ham?"

I do not like them Sam-I-am.
I dare not eat fried eggs and ham.

"Would you could you in a tree?"

I would not could not in a tree.
They would kill me instantly!

"Would you eat them with a roast?
"Would you with Parkay on toast?"

Not with toast! Not in a tree!
Not with a roast! Sam, let me be!

"Would you with popcorn and pies?
Or with a Big Mac, Coke, and fries?"

I would not eat them with a Coke nor with fries!
Not with popcorn, not with pies!
Not with a juicy roast!
Not with Parkay on toast!
'They're bad!' the Surgeon General said.
If I eat them, I'll be dead.

"You do not like them so you say.
"Try them and you may, I say."

Sam! If you will let me be, I will try them
You will see.

Say! I like fried eggs and ham!
And I would eat them with a roast.
And I will with Parkay on toast.
And with popcorn and with pies
With a Big Mac, Coke, and fries.
These sure do beat tofu and sprouts.
Those food police are silly louts.
I do so like fried eggs and ham!
That health food craze is such a scam.

It just hit me today that I ought to write a sequal to Dr. Suess's "Green Eggs and Ham." It would start out:

That Sam-he-was!
That Sam-he-was!
He's such a scuzz that Sam-he-was!

I'm, a Dr. Suess fan too. I think he would enjoy your parodies. I know I do. I also like green eggs and ham. Ever eaten green eggs? I am not talking about dyed eggs but the real thing.

Unravel

Taking out the safety pins
that hold my life together
and keep me from unraveling

And now for a longer, more depressing poem

I was wearing that necklace when I heard,
when she told me in hushed tones by the water fountain
that you tried to take yourself from this world to the next.
When the one who loved you like I did
told me to kiss the necklace clasp and make a wish,
she said "I know what you wished for."
And she did. It was what she wished for too.
And every time I kissed that clasp, I prayed
"God let him be ok, bring him back to us."
You'll never know how many prayers were said on your behalf.
But as time passed, I forgot sometimes,
and I no longer reached for that golden circle when I was afraid
The summer was too hot for jewelry, even for my talisman.
I left it guarding my home,
but who was guarding you?
I haven't forgotten you.
I can't tell if I love you or hate you,
but I know that your presence hurts me.
I will always wonder if you are happy.
I will always wonder why you never needed me.

Amira T, your app. form is good. It reminded me of something my old English teacher told us. But I’ll tell that later.

aka, I like Biology .

ducky, you’ve done it again with Ode to the Wild Iris. Nice work.

I do have a serious side that twinkles through the mists once and a while. It’s different from my sirius side which I use when I’m trying to write doggerel. So here is a serious one. Let me know if I’ve mixed any metaphores that I’m not aware of.

Worship Service

Cathedral mountains and their wind sculptured steeples arise
Surrounded by each climate's gardens beneath the stained glass skies.
Where every hill is a house of prayer and every grove a shrine,
The world reveals it's secrets slowly line upon line.

There are hymns of praise in a rain shower’s susurration,
And the vesper breezes whisper the “Kyrie eleison.”
The myriad choirs of the earth in lilting oratory
Sing, "For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory."

There are mighty sermons preached by storm and thunder's roar
As the ocean pounds its fist upon the pulpit of the shore.
Colliding continents shout, "Hosanna, to God and the Lamb.
And valleys echo back in benediction, "Amen and Amen."

There are prayers of faith in each mother's gentle caring.
And prayers of hope in every root and seed. They all are sharing
The promise of the spring. For all that sleep beneath the winter's cruel
Snows, have hope to see the advent of the sun and life's renewal.

Give me ears to hear and eyes to see, and quicken my spirit sense
That I can see, in the bowing grass or the planets whirling in space,
The oblations that they offer and the testimonies that they bear
That indeed there is a heaven and a loving Father there.

Samuel M Bush
April 1998

(there now, I finally corrected 'its' on line 10 per Annie's suggestion -- 1-12-00)

The wind blows.
The rays of my existence,
they are almost gone.

I am pale.
The bright colors that once engulfed my body have faded.
Shades of brown and yellow now pierce me.
My usefullness to the mother has ended.
I know that i will die soon.

My grasp to the foundation is tearing.
A searing, ripping pain courses through me.
My last ties with the mother are severed.
Death is upon me.

I fall.
For what seems like a million miles i glide towards death.
A lone wail escapes as i plummet.
Soon i will be nothing.

In the waining hours of dusk.
A thousand screams pierce the woods.
Heard by noone,
mourned by nothing,
except their own silent mothers.

The wind blows.
The rays of my existence,
they are almost gone.

I am pale.
The bright colors that once engulfed my body have faded.
Shades of brown and yellow now pierce me.
My usefullness to the mother has ended.
I know that i will die soon.

My grasp to the foundation is tearing.
A searing, ripping pain courses through me.
My last ties with the mother are severed.
Death is upon me.

I fall.
For what seems like a million miles i glide towards death.
A lone wail escapes as i plummet.
Soon i will be nothing.

In the waining hours of dusk.
A thousand screams pierce the woods.
Heard by noone,
mourned by nothing,
except their own silent mothers.

The Cedar Chest
________________

Great-Grandma had a dusty cedar chest.
At times she'd take it out and show me treasures it concealed.
Her dusty voice would paint for me the pictures
Of years and lands gone by as on her handmade quilt we kneeled.

A faded black & white of grandpa showed
A noble, regal man in decorated uniform.
She told me how he flew across the world,
And braved the horrid thunders of that god-forsaken storm.

Newspaper clippings dated '41
Announced aloud in bold italic font, "We've Come to War."
Her faded Western Union envelopes
She never let me read - I never understood what for.

At rest beneath the scraps and trinkets sat,
As once the Ark sat sacredly upheld in wond'rous awe,
A faded banner of the softest felt
Adorned with stars of blue and gold, whose like I never saw.

I dared to ask her one October day
What was the meaning of the reverence for this ensign?
Her melancholy eyes pierced to my soul;
She told me of a pain no words could dare try to define.

PASSION

Hearts meshed, intertwined
Arms locked, holding tight
Lips touch, parting slightly, lingering...
Souls connect, holding steady
Becoming one, combining, ecstasy forever climbing
Rising like the sun, but never setting
The love begins to flow, to grow
To shine like the stars, but never dying out
Like an eclipse, your heart envelops mine
Like a life begun, our love is renewed
Inspirations unfold, never growing old
Like tinted glass, we mirror each other's love
And like the glowing moon, we know our love will never fade away.

Running around
and around and around
Falling down
Getting up
to spin again
for that giddy dizzy feeling

Racing to a hidden spot
turning back
Racing to the starting point
turning again
Racing back to the magic spot again
for the thrill of the wind on your face

Singing a song
over and over and over
As loud as you can
for as long as you can
for the joy of knowing the words and the tune

Climbing impossibly tall trees
Wading into mucky ponds
Tramping through deep dark woods
Rolling down green hills

Breathing in pure excitement
Exhaling adventures
Living fully in each moment

Oh, to be a child again.

Annie, userAnnie, and masterofthenostalgic, hmm do I like “The Cedar Chest,” “Passion,” or “Reminiscing” the best. I’m having trouble deciding. Oh well, I’ll think about it tomorrow.

ducky, I must have been unclear. It was NOT published. The “Ensign” rejected it. Oh well. (If you are interested in my unlustrious history of published stuff see the “Hatrack writers in print” thread in the writers forum. You’ll be underwhelmed.) As to your being chicken – I know how you feel. Keep submitting. You are good. A few hours ago, I saw the following on a ballet poster in my daughter’s dance studio and I thought of your last post. It didn’t say who wrote it.