He says he loves Jesus and Jesus loves him.
He’s a modern day prophet forgiving your sins.
He’s a radio pirate with a cable show too,
A mistress in Paris, an eye out for you.
His brand of religion breeds heartbreak and pain.
He’s a born again Christian with something to gain.
Deceitfully convincing his flock of salvation,
In return he receives a standing ovation.
His glorious sermons preach schemes of division,
Exquisitely crafted to prevent any schism.
Triumphantly pitting his will against right,
He lusts after money & covets your wife.
An unnatural affection for boys under ten,
He’s drugged quite a few on his couch in the den.
He’s suspicious of women and fearful of men.
There’s a gun by his bed marked ‘specially’ for them.
He’s a beast. He’s a monster. It’s sad but it’s true.
His secret agenda keeps Jesus from you.
He’s afraid you’ll rise up if you find out the truth,
Afraid you’ll tip off your wife & your youth.
He’s a huckster, a shyster, and the devil disguised.
He’s a freak who insists only his god is wise.
This prince of invective is consumed by desire.
While preaching forgiveness he’s stoking his fire.
A rose for your love, for your love, a red rose. It is the rose that I keep near my side by my bed. It is the rose of my heart moist with tears I have shed. Petals like pearls in deep ruby red, like the promise of May in a vase near my bed. Made of burnished white lead with an inscription well said: A rose from above to remind you you’re loved. It is the rose of my heart in a deep scarlet red, in a beautiful vase near my side by my bed.
Divine mind is electrical. That may sound as if it is coming out of left field unless it does not, yet to come to this fabulous place where there is no ‘NO’ to fathom (because the universe spirals with a joyous sound), is not something frivolous or sacrilegious nor does it entail separation of any sort.
It lacks friction ~ because ~ although there is an opposite of yes in the cosmos, G-d sees to it that going against ‘the grain’ of a ‘Sojourner’s Truth’, is fraught with pain … yet … who is anyone to judge the will of the one whose will is at a different wavelength, or frequency, than yours or mine?
Life on Earth: It is actually a beautiful spiritual mathematical equation. I believe a dunce in math-such as I-can see clearer for not knowing the rules, therefore only possibilities. I think words are tools to lead but no matter the language, even one of the four ancient tongues, can never be the end of a journey which does not use language at all.
The universe communicates with itself and other universes using numbers. This is reason why the science of numerology is a holy & sacred way of communicating. If not for the Jewish fathers who seized and ran off with the ancient texts regarding numerology, astronomy, physics, astrology, as well as other texts of excruciating beauty and palpable truths, which were encased in secrecracy at the famed library of Alexandria, Egypt, just before this grand and world renown edifice was burned and ransacked by Roman marauders, we would be a poorer people than we are now.Even to this day, there are innumerable texts of great wisdom hidden quite well in the deserts of north Africa and beyond that will be revealed once humanity sees the truth of its ‘oneness’.
To these people who risked all to save all, to such a people with such passion, love and foresight to protect our legacy as human beings of any epoch, saying thank you is frivolous, moot and not enough. To deny them the glory of their holiness is a sin in the eyes of all God’s children. Feel free to ask me why I know this or how is it the truth. I would not answer that question if I could. You have all you need at your disposal to discover the truth for yourselves.
Full moon silver frosted leaves, glacine dew robed sycamore sleeves. Sagacious spiders (masters of weave), slept snug & warm beneath my eaves. The creek roared fierce with a late spring rain. All things full must surely wane. Perpetual blossoms should not be sad, but I can’t sing when I’m feeling mad.
Atomic beats drove me insane. The sight I saw played on my brain. I wondered if the sky felt pain? Raven soar’d in for his attack. The Hawk’s quick eye did catch the beast but not before the Raven’s feast. The Hawk chick fell from the sycamore to the rocky banks of this canyon floor. The rest, of course, is etched in lore:
An Angel garbed in feathered dress descended from her perch of rest. The battered babe, his blood now cold, rose from the dead on wings of gold. Miraculous in the Phoenix mold; fell from the sky then resurrected: A God-shot is quite unexpected for when the Reaper comes it’s time to go. Since earth’s first dawn this has been so, but then again, how would I know?
Heart returned to our beloveds’ sky, then the sweetest glint in our dear chick’s eye. The babe ascended his lofty nest to the greatest comfort, a mother’s breast. Successful in her Angel quest, our heroine in feathered dress returned to where all Angels rest. To this day this lore I’ve told delights all children, both young & old.