Heavens to Quetzi #atheist #myths #poem

If I must have a god, give me serpent with plumes of gold:
Or Tlaloc a mean-looking god of thunder and rain.
Don’t give me a whispy ghost or humble martyr slain,
But one aggressive thunderer, ruling a cosmos bold.

Truth is I don’t need any deity or spirit outside of myself:
Neither arrogance nor ego, just no real proof of evidence
Consistently reminding that bible god’s providence
Comes from bronze age traditions: not on my shelf.

Widespread calendar art is just plain kitsch:
Jesus and Mary depicted to please and inspire
Are illusions: those idealized bodies don’t perspire.
Believe in those myths? no more than werewolf or witch.

Back to Quetzi and Tlaloc, why not those two?
Against Christianity, those myths are equally true.

Atheist Epicure’s Bedtime Verse #atheist #humor #poem

We went to restaurant not cheap:
As guest I uttered not a peep.
A window faux pictured a lake,
With pretence of a shore most fake.

With fancy menu (not to keep)
In French aligned to prices steep.
The waiter waits requests to take.
I ask the chef my spud to bake.

For food delayed critique we’ll bleep:
To sweet dessert my fork did leap.
Red wine and coffee with the cake,
Including doggie bag to take.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
With hope that food in fridge will keep.
If it should spoil before I wake,
I hope for Rex the scraps to take.

Beatifying the Beatles #catholicchurch #beatles #p2 #topprog #poem

Ringo Starr on Vatican Forgiveness: ‘A Publicity Stunt’

Ringo Starr is right: forgiving is a stunt.
Media focus on the clergy’s sexual crimes
Make the Vatican’s reversal in these times
Distracting from confession, being blunt.

Christian 60s fling with Sgt. Pepper’s band
Shocked Jesus’ band of preachers, even Rome.
Beatles bashed by pope from lofty dome:
Sex, drugs and rock and roll be damned.

Fearing laity and clergy swinging to the left
The church hung a right, hiding the nasty fact
That covering paedofilia was the internal pact:
Avoid public scandal with global moral heft.

Is Beatle John now yanked to heaven from hell,
To be with other Johns, once popes, pray tell?

Queer Facts #sexabuse #glbt #poem #p2 #topprog

Adult abuse of children shocks but is widespread:
Across time, cultures and continents: none spared.
Chilling connection of trust, with those who ‘cared’
Facilitates a crime that causes universal dread.

Without excusing the priest or scoutmaster
Who broke a sacred vow making sex object of child,
Statistics are clear: little girls are the most defiled,
By uncle, father, household male, not the pastor.

Homophobes present a lurid portrait of gay men,
Out or closeted, but perverted vampires all
Seeking boys to ensnare with prurient call.
Facts: Strait offenders greater by power of ten.

Counselors of troubled families will attest
No chick is safe with the raptor in the nest.

Selling Taco Shells #tacotuesday #sonnet

She sells taco shells on Tuesdays by the score.
Mexican food addicts who prefer to cook at home
Don’t join the gypsies who ‘taquerias’ roam.
Though eateries have secret ingredients lore.

Tacos, enchiladas and sides of beans and rice
Are the basic foods of the numbered plates.
Natives to the food will sneer, reveal their hates
For foods poorly prepared: hot sauce does not suffice.

Dishes prepared at home by Mexican cooks
Vary in taste and seasoning from local fare
Like the sham that cheap corn chips dare
Imitation home-made tortillas, the crooks.

Commercial taco trends food purists rile:
Ignore critiques, stuff your mouth, tacophile.

Mean Murdoch Means #mediabias #p2 #topprog

Mean Murdoch Means

Media magnate Rupert Murdoch kills me,
Strongly criticisizing bland competition.
Fox news emits such blatant repetition
Of right wing slander is at bias apogee.

Staunch supporter of conservative cause,
Power and wealth used for propaganda.
Right wing candidates hope it’ll hand a
Poll victory. Obama does give pause.

Union of wealth with religion couples diverse
Interests into common cause, but there’s more.
The base is expanded by nativist, racist core:
Confederacy of fools is cute, realitys worse.

Murdoch’s goals are protection of power and wealth.
The crazies he stokes encourage treasonous stealth.

Bulletin Insert / Illicit Inserts #catholicchurch #scandal #sonnet

Catholic bishops oppose abuse case bill

Bulletin Insert / Illicit Inserts

Bishops in Connecticut have you no shame?
Limit the statute of limitations on sex abuse --
OK will you from anti-abortion stance recuse?
You want a child sex victim to stop claim?

Your church institutions were placed at risk
By celibacy vowed priests who had the hots
For boys, some barely past the age of tots.
To far off places offenders you would whisk.

You fear the millions it would cost to clear
The docket of the court or to silence men
Who’ll never the forget the horny priest’s yen
And will carry life-long guilt, mistrust and fear.

Though your flock, blind followers, will be staying,
This music you must face for illicit organ playing.


April 11, 2010
Connecticut’s Roman Catholic bishops are urging parishes to fight legislation that would extend the statute of limitation in civil child sex abuse cases. The bishops asked pastors to include a bulletin insert this week that warns of potentially disastrous financial fallout. The insert says the bill could dredge up claims more than 70 years old and place all church institutions at risk, even parishes free of claims. The insert is signed by Hartford Archbishop Henry Mansell, Bridgeport Bishop William Lori, and Norwich Bishop Michael Cote. Current law gives victims until age 48 to sue. The new law would allow people above that age to join in lawsuits filed by younger people. State Representative Beth Bye, a cosponsor of the bill, said the bishops’ letter was inflammatory and showed a lack of focus on abuse victims. (AP)

Two Ill Winds Breaking

Why Fart Thou? Sonorous Sonnet (Pedontic)
(In keeping with my practice of modeling some of my poetry on other poems, I adapted a Sicilian Petrarchan to create these two new, very similar, ones: two riffs on the same theme. ‘Pedo’ is a vulgar Spanish word for ‘fart’.)

Oh why fart thou my bedmate I pray?
Dost thou not love me, like I do thee now?
Am I to have lost my nose scents this day
When I endureth thy inanity, in bed with thou?
Why does thou treat a dear bedmate this way?
To be ashamed, I wouldst for the endow
For a gaseous impunity has now fled astray.
My nostrils burn, eyes are watering, and how!
Harken, ‘twas a rumbling noise I didst hear,
Hidden ‘neath the your olde pillows three,
My tortured senses now shaketh with fear
Mayhaps tis flatus, what else could it be?
“Twas another ill wind? How drear my dear;
With all that poison, I departeth from thee.

Petrarchan Ill Wind Breaking
With apologies to serious poets & those who love poetry

Oh don’t fart thou my crude friend, Okay?
Dost thy not respect me, you smelly sow?
Am I to be with your stink and odor today,
When I shareth my table at home with thou?
Why dost thou treat an acquaintance this way?
To be shamed, I wouldst hope thee avow.
Your understanding of decent bounds is astray
Civility prohibits fight, I only raise a brow.

“Harken, twas a ripping sound I didst hear,
‘Neath your comforter, a noxious spree.
Your trembling body announces, I fear
Another flatulent explosion soon to be.
Twas an apt foretelling, my eyes did sear:
With tears I rise give notice and flee.

This was the serious poem that triggered my buffooneries.Where Art Thou. Sicilian Sonnet (Petrarchian)

Posted January 13th, 2010 by willow

Oh where art thou my dearest lover I pray,
Dost thy not love me, like I do thee now,
Am I to have lost my true honour this day
When I shareth my vanity, alone with thou,
Why dost thou treat a poor maiden this way,
To be shamed, I wouldst for thee endow
For alas my purity hast now fled astray
My forsaken chastity taketh a final bow.
Harken, `twas a broken twig I didst hear,
Hidden `neath the olde sweeping, willow tree,
My trembling body now shaketh with fear
Mayhaps tis my lover, most precious be he,
"Twas that thee my love? oh my dearest dear
With all my person, I trembleth, for thee

Ashburn Burns Ass

Bakersfield awakened to the news:
Swerving car of anti swishing views
Senator, just leaving funny Faces –
Not good news for political races.

It’s “C” Street hypocrisy return,
Leaving a Gay bar was Roy Ashburn.
Burning ashes doesn’t start a fire
Nor does this arrest raise my ire.

Righteous Roy, the gay molester,
Homophobic boil did burn and fester.
Where’s your indignation, Christian sir?
Under Macho saddle, queer burr?

Bashing queers as tactical campaigns
Risk media lights on closet floor stains.



http://www.topix.com/news/gay/2010/03/anti-gay-senator-roy-ashburn-arrested-after-leaving-gay-nightclub

http://tw0.us/6jn

Anti-gay senator Roy Ashburn arrested after leaving gay nightclub

Around 2am Wednesday, March 3rd, California State Senator, Roy Ashburn (R-Bakersfield) was pulled over in his state-issued black Chevy Tahoe. There was an unidentified man travelling with the senator. Sources say the senator had just left the gay nightclub, Faces, when police noticed the car swerving dangerously and pulled him over.

Sputtering Poet & Response to Critic

Sputtering Poet

I’m not energized for writing verses,
The pump is sputtering and I feel tired.
I’m at the opposite of being wired
And wordsmithing might record reverses.

Poet hasn’t written anything decent
In a while. Versing when not inspired
Might not be best: it might get mired
In phrases clearly not by muses sent.

Nonetheless sparking poetic synapses,
Though inspiration is at low voltage,
Spurt juice enough for rhyming wattage:
Inferior stanzas are better than total lapses.

As mother tends ill child though she’s dying,
Poet nurses verses through feverish crying.


@JCred: I once wrote a better poem. with my dick. RT @elmonte09: Sputtering Poet

To Critic With Poetic Phallus

I’ve no envy of your penis poem,
Poet with a literate peepee,
Even if your versed member be
Quite able to write and type ‘em.

Casting verse in twitter stream
Risks judgements such as this.
I’ve dark wish for poetic bris:
Foreskin editing, my scheme.

Just cut the tip of flaccid rhyme
Introduced by your witty penis:
Not converting David into Venus
Yet with cut rate snitch in time.

Dear critic with cultured phallus:
I’m not macho: I bear no malice.

Ode to a Laptop Screen (Neither Greek nor an Urn)

Ode to a Laptop Screen

(With further apologies to Keat's Ode on a Grecian Urn)
How still the keyboard sits in quietness,
The bastard-child of touch and typist time,
Selectric’s history, now faster express
A speedy tale of PCs in our rhyme:
What typist’s legend haunts about thy shape
Of dictation tedious stories told?
The processing of words on screen
Stopped the tedious hard print cold!
Of liquid paper and self correcting tape,
Ancient carbon paper, what do those mean?

Hard memories are sweet, but those with speed
Are sweeter still, so see that RAM is fast;
Not just the min but max of giga need,
With hertz to spare and memory to last
If lights go out. This byte-ful brain
Is more than scribing words to print:
Typewriters checked no words or syntax;
Editing and cleaning up’s a lesser strain
Though handwriting and spelling now are lax.
Each product is enriched by triple-W mint.

Ah happy, happy search that has a spread
Of information never seen before,
To questions strange we once did dread:
Answers accumulate and more and more.
Oh happy internet with many useful sites
For ever up and there to be enjoy’d
From sciences and hobbies, to habits weird
Freedom’s reaching new populist heights:
Ever ready, for many purposes employed.
(What Whole Earth Catalog pioneered ?)

Where goest we in this computer age?
To what employ these screens and text?
Social media reflect common ills and rage,
Children’s online uses have adults perplexed.
Spleen notes burst, bigotry explodes online,
Facebook flames and Twitter tiffs
Are constant proof of obvious hates
Posts can span the odious to sublime
Most reactions and submissions are riffs
Of common prejudices, all that irates.

O Laptop! My work & play partner dear,
How helpful two-score years ago you’d been
When college papers had me filled with fear.
With online resources, five footnotes are thin.
Optimist genes drive me to vision of hope:
When old age shall this generation waste,
The net shall remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Seek out the truth, that’s your duty, --that is all
Ye search online, and all ye need to know.”

Ode on a Freethinker’s Burn

Ode on a Freethinker’s Burn
(Patterned after Keat’s Ode On a Grecian Urn)

Thou shrill unvarnished bride of godliness,
Thou poster-child of faith’s thought crime,
Christian witness who must always express
A bible-tale, and bring up Jesus every time:
That grief-fringed legend you can’t escape
Of pain and death, the fabled cross
And resurrection: relived each year,
With human sin the guilty cause.
What mad pursuit? What jaws of devil gape?
What sin occasions? What hellish fear?

Lacerations bleed, but pricks of mind
Are deeper, therefore, the guilt you lay on
One sensitive to words is more unkind.
So bearer of bad tidings, begone.
Fundamental Christian you must leave.
Thy song be silenced: I don’t care
To hear of virgin birth nor mystic bliss,
Your proofless news are bad for me: I grieve
For other victims of your treacherous kiss,
You don’t bring peace, I must declare.

Ah, happy, happy thoughts! That had me shed
Your myths, and ever bid the faith adieu;
And, happy intellect unwearied,
For ever giving thoughts for ever new;
What happy freedom, unfettered love!
No more wasted days in prayer employed,
No more nights in tortured guilt
No more hell below, heaven above
The heart is light, unburdened, buoyed,
A freedom song sung with human lilt.

Why return to ancient tale of sacrifice?
To painful altar, to egregious priest?
Think thou I’m vulnerable to lies
With plastered saints and cherubs friezed?
All parables and sermons I deplore;
Each prayer and litany I reject
I’m happy with my limits human.
The altar of scientific wisdom I adore
To hardwon evolutions I genuflect
No gods gave rigor to this acumen.

O Atheist thought! Fair attitude! By breed
Of bright wit humans ever wrought,
With evidence and rigor, no ghostly need;
Churches’ psalm dost interrupt our thought
With stolid myths: be silent now!
When death comes and those worms call,
Our findings will remain, amidst your woe
Of sins and deities, and how in prayer to bow.
Reason brings truth, truth reason, -- that is all
I know on earth, and all I need to know.