Broodings and Ponderings of a Pensive Skeptic
Where the Sun Don’t Shine
Books of myth, fiction, fantasy, and magic,
when truth be told, are wonderous, magical,
fine entertainment.
The darkest are sadistic
lies contained in false truths told,
from pages and pulpits of religious propaganda.
Such cliched moronic nonsense would
make magical mindless fodder if only
some twinkles of truth were told about their
myth, fiction, fantasy, and magic. Of course,
I just did that, did I not?
To be chosen, preferred, favored
from among the many typed or penned
by Him,
to be selected as a creation
of Creations,
to know this favoritism
is of His own doing
brings light with pleasure.
Gratification being a true piece
of self,
of Him,
of art.
Is there to be joy
in words
or pity for the many
not so selected?
How does the poem know the poet?
He who worked weeks
to trickle a passive single
or wildly, emotionally
swinging for the fence
and finding a home run
from the glory of gut—
if it is sin, prideful sin.
I’ve decided.
I know what I want;
and how I want it.
My goal
has always been
to have it both ways.
I want to live forever,
but not to age;
I want loyalty
without commitment;
I want happiness
without sadness;
wins
without losses;
all the women,
but none of the men;
I want victory
without competition;
dreams
without sleep;
drama
without risk;
intoxication
without whiskey;
acceptance without effort;
good without bad;
And love,
I just want to love
and to be loved.
Happy Friday and best weekend wishes, y’all.
When you go to church,
synagogue, or mosque, and
you do what you are
supposed to do, and you say or
sing same, maybe even dress
as expected, but you don’t
believe in the one key
uniting thing all the
others do, or you think
they do. They may be
just like you.
You go for reasons
only you know,
maybe you don’t understand
yourself, maybe you must go.
Maybe it’s grandma, who
you do believe in, maybe
it’s for money or glory, or
sex, security, or safety.
Maybe companionship or fellows.
Maybe you are searching
for something.
Some secrets
can never be told and die
with their keepers.
Bill
objecting to your prayers feels like
I am rejecting your love,
your caring, your helping me
get past a difficult time. I am grateful
for you and that you care and that you love
or care about me.
yet, if you really care
look at me—touch me,
talk to me. a hug is okay.
but please. must I accept that you will
shoot a quick message to your almighty
who will then correct or change the cold facts
I now face? please stop denying reality
and pretending your prayers
make a difference or change anything.
they do not!
the only miracles are those events
science, money and power create.
thanks anyway.
with love and appreciation,
bill
Otherwise known as FOWC. A poem for poetic karma.
***
Some like to call it karma,
I much prefer poetic justice,
a revenge as sweet as the Mystic River.
Preachers, teachers, political thugs
All due a bit of comeuppance.
Some days I wish there was a hell.
I know that life is seldom fair,
and I know I really shouldn’t care,
yet smile I must, as they get theirs.
***
Dispassionate Doubt 