Archives For Poetry

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Hear the seldom gong and its solemn tone
.       a high pitched, heart wrenching groan.

Unheard human tears, receive an audience before Divine ears.
Unhinged society’s switched off its intelligence;
Blank talking into the eyes of its own darkness.

The abussos,

.      its emptiness,

.      its quiet violent chasm.

The depth of which only God knows.

.       “Bring forth the railings, planks and rope,
.        sure up a bridge, empowered by grace.
.        and may from it spring, all manner of hope.”

Bind and pull back those who’ve just climbed down the walls in order to ascend
Warn the others and waste no time on those who still refuse to comprehend.

For once safely over this monstrous abyss,
.     only hope will carry those who did not cease to exist.

Huddle together,

.           walk quickly,

.                   pray ferociously.

For war is coming.

Those content with slavery find no excuse to resist,
.          intolerance is not tolerated by virtue of tolerance.
All hail the veiling master, the academic oppressor, and their slave traders;
Who’ve categorized the masses, tagged and sold them into subservience.

Ushered into these new wastelands,
.            convenient science feeds industrialized collectives
.            and is protected by martial law.

The only two options given,
are total submission or total war.


(©RL2017)

 

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This watery eyed bluff before me,

.                 accompanies the sunrise,

.                 like drips of dew falling from moist leaves.

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With its green back turned towards the east

.      this mountain makes the most of the brisk morning breeze.

Knowing, soon, it’ll be encased in the fiery Australian summer heat.

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It’s face still draped in darkness;

.                  a sign that this giant still sleeps.

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The smoldering remnants of a bush fire

.                   clothes each crevice in blue shadows,

.        its rock walls lightly illuminated by the dawn.

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Unlike the humans below,

        .this drowsy, cool mountain is in no hurry

to awaken this slow vista from its quiet yawn.

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Decorated by the crowded sound of the Eastern Rosella,

.        the sky above it welcomes clouds.

Some grey and some white.

Some not yet visible to the human eye.

.       (The latter’s arrival only announced

.                      by an ominous, pink, morning sky.)

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Even the laugh of Kookaburra,

.                      or the Galah’s collective chalkboard screech,

.                      fail to waken, with alarm,

.        this bluff and its plateaued peak.


(©RL2017)

No writer goes without giving a tongue-in-cheek, somewhat hyperbolic critique of the circles in which they sometimes find themselves. Here’s mine.


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We share pictures of books
Show off our reading pace so everyone looks.

Pat ourselves on the back for having beaten our friends to it,
Be the first to blog, tweet, and hope the bubble applies “likes” to it.

We quit our news feeds to quiet the noise.
Yet feed news feeds with the sound of our own voice.

It’s all supply and demand you see,
I post my thing and demand that you read.

Yes, we like those we think can, or may, or will, advance our career.
And only add those who can pad our stats to show off our appeal.

Heaven help the soul who seeks to participate.
This is a “community” that doesn’t reciprocate.

We’ll sit in silence and execute our higher responses
While pushing our own intellectual repertoire up your noses.

If you speak outside the paradigm, you can be sure to be hated.
That, though, is never openly stated.

Not publicly of course,
fans, followers and friends might just as openly disendorse us.

It would impact our numbers; steal our thunder.

Outdo, be outone, but don’t overdo the outdo, or your membership is done.

Don’t rock the boat, cause these inflated egos don’t float.

Simply, don’t! Not even with quotes.

Our prime pedestals should appear dressed prim and proper,
Should be camera ready, because we’re the only real show stoppers.

If you serve with ambition and don’t provoke our progressive suspicions,
and as long as your not seen as competition,
you’ll fit in with this cult of neo-Gnosticism.

Ode to the wall of virtual snobs.

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(©RL2016)

Image: Raphael Koh

‘Proximity & activity don’t always equal connectivity’ – Lysa TerKeurst, Uninvited, p.43

Faith’s Old Firebrands

December 14, 2016 — Leave a comment

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Sweeping dread,

. cornered by mystery;

.   faith framed by sincerity,

.       disrupting shy anxiety.

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Rested significance,

.   now rejects compliance;

.       silence was conformity.

Yet that which comes with outspoken dignity,

.   is mistaken as vanity.

The accusers and their five-cents worth of echoes;

.    are like a banished banshee’s last whine;

.    whips lashing out from undisciplined, brainwashed minds.

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Still small words of endurance carve

.    paths through both patterns and shards,

.        of self-condemnation, 

.         and its dark past.

Discordant chimes crash on rocks of corroded trust;

.    the final sales pitch of lukewarm sycophants and such.

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This new dawn vindicates faith’s old firebrands

Who’s words were too easily written off as,

 .     too hot to touch.


(©RL2016)

monk-with-back-drop

Alone.

The assembly lines stand abandoned.
.     Support stations silenced.

The floor is covered in bleak layers of ash.

The unbroken quiet, broken by drips of quickening sorrow.

This place was once full of sighs and hand-me-downs
.    Now even they’re all gone.

The walls still show signs of attendance.
Yet, no manner of violent remonstration,
.     rage or fomented frustration,
can remove the grey from this calloused remembrance.

.     Even if their inhabitants failed to provide subsistence
This ground held promise.
.     Now that’s all spent-slash-squandered.

The leftovers were nothing; nothing worth noting.

Like scattered mines,
.     Each empty barrel and bin are filled with charges of antecedent chagrins;
Shadows of a generation that never gave thought to the world of tomorrow.

Upwards the frame is shattered, its roof left mangled;
.      bright orange lines of rust stains run down what’s left of each pillar.
Tear-shaped lines of yesteryear move even the most thoughtless of listeners.

Then rising unnoticed, begins the slow ascent of the impossible and the peculiar.

Engravings marked by an outward light,
.             pierce through the silted darkness.

Then hands reach down and dust off,
.           grace-breathed Petroglyphs of the once familiar.

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(©RL2016)

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The chamber reverberates,

“I’m no good at this.”

These broken sounds match darkened walls.

Thoughts smashed together, move like crashing symbols.

Whispers drip down blood lines,

“…no good at this. We’ve made sure of it.”

Each unchecked word, spin.

Each unchecked word, a win.

So the servants of the serpent mumble.

“Yesss, no good at all.”

Unsurrendered

Villainy employs the surrendered,

And the surrendered seek to make their mark.

But these foundations tremble.

Impossible cracks appear in the dark.

With sporadic veracity,

Light, like lightning, sparks.

Igniting intervention,

Trumpets sound,

As signs abound,

“kommen das Gott von Veritas!”

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(Poem: RL2016)

                             (Art: John Martin, 1824. Creation of Light, (Paradise Lost – Book 7)

Hidden Emissaries

October 27, 2016 — Leave a comment

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Hidden emissaries

Fifth columns*, called to rise

Gracefully disguised

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“Let brotherly love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

– (Hebrews 13:1-2, ESV)


Notes:

*According to Thomas Doherty, in Hollywood and Hitler, 2013, Fifth column is a reference that came out of the Spanish Civil War. It is a comment ‘attributed to Rebel commander Emilio Mola during the battle for Madrid in 1936. Mola claimed to have four columns of troops surrounding the city and a fifth column within the city ready to join the offensive.’ (Columbia University Press, p.151)

**Artwork credit:  Gerbrand van den Eeckhout, 1664 ‘Cornielius‘. Inspired by Acts. 10

***Haiku: RL2016