Poem | |
Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.
There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."
But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.
Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....
....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.
And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water,
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:
"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.
So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."
September 25th, 2011
Poem | |
I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
Poem | |
Love is not a color,
No hue, neither a race.
All of our blood is the same,
That runs deep within our veins.
If we could lift up each other,
And know that we all care.
If we help our sisters and brothers,
There's a bond that we'll share.
©2013 Honestly JT
Poem | |
we strive to make sure
each day enlightens us
and brightens us
even as light fades to gray
may we keep fighting
with two swollen feet
beneath the body and soul
and intense life lessons
meshed with stresses
may we persevere
turn off fear's song
may we stand firm
as we glide along
through shifty winds of change
that may cause things to sway
but we hold true
inside the values and morality
we stand for
fall for nothing
may stumble along the trip
may swerve at the wheel yet
do not lose our grip
because no one
can eclipse the sun
before they're done
Just when situations arise
flooding us with pain we despise
and just when it seems like
our tear ducts are dry
from ongoing cries
we may think
things are on the brink of ending
then God shows us the ways of faith
by way of love that he's sending
we make sure
every day enlightens us
and brightens us
as each day takes its turn.
Poem | |
-Dr President Lady, please launch the nuclear war button-
I'm packing up my girdle; I'm heading up state
Where society thinks only men should run for president
Chill with Bill, on the side show Hill
Subsequently, he got tripped up with his hand in the biscuit jar
This poem is not about me... It's not about, Hilary
I'm here to cheer and throw off an early vote voluntarily
I'm numbering my days with the aces
Until the 2016 U.S. Presidential election
Only in a woman, you’ll find confidence and determination,
Someplace out there is our leading lady in disguise
A woman who sits down and pee's with pride
A woman Like Hilary, whose place was denied in the sun
I will vote for a woman who is not afraid to lead,
Grab up her crotch, and fight for all the right reasons
Repaint the town white and her fingernails red
Blue lipstick in the breeze, a tommy gun in her possession
A million dollar diamond ring,
A mink from all cultures of the globe
Sing hallelujah, Amen Praise the Lord!
Pink ribbons of freedom,
China can test all her might,
It's time to feel the empowerment of a woman's delight
There she’ll be’, sit down and enjoy,
When it’s time to hear her voice,
The bullet will miss her beautiful mind,
She'll Raid the Democratic Nomination moment of the blind
Her ego on the side; when it's time to reason with society
Feel the shattered glass feeling when sharks attack whitey
Cop Out the Republican Bully
Black Ops the Democratic Liar
For women can reach, preach, and teach,
Nursing a world, collaborating with every mind
A barrier to be breached, a blessed moment to come,
If you require a true hit, vote for a woman in the Oval Office
Who said Mrs. Wonderbra can’t launch the nuclear war button
Poem | |
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'
From the poem: "The Mask of Anarchy" written by Percy Bysshe Shelley
how frail you seem in certain angles of light and shadow,
with your cavities,
fractured attention deficiency,
and thickening skin of apathy.
You are a victim to the plague,
playing amongst flowers filled with poison,
staring at screens to fill in the boredom
of having your young mind brimming
with over-stimulation -
information seeps in without warning,
beamed into your skull
by 360 degrees
of high-def, infra-red, wireless mobility.
24/7 programming of insidious adverts
breaches your skull in a mind-rape,
proving how the Death of a Salesman
was only a sideshow distraction
for the Kleptocracy to successfully purchase
the dark side of the moon -
control the tides,
control the mind,
buying our hearts and souls
in order to auction off our future
to the highest bids of people already dead.
yet I believe in you,
there is still hope left upon your shoulders.
You are strong,
your mind cuts like a blade.
And if you care,
if you dare,
what a significant burden for you to bare.
The time has come,
the time is ripe,
this is it,
there are no more second chances.
I pray for your success,
for you are our very last hope.
Please learn from my mistakes and failures,
absorb the goodness I have left to offer.
I tried, I truly did,
but the Hydra spat me out as a broken man.
we left seeds inside the belly of the beast
for you to survive on within.
God speed, take heed,
do not attack the Kleptocracy from the outside,
its Dragon's heads will cut you down -
will cut you down without mercy.
You must advance peacefully
with a rogue's armour of false calm,
let the machine devour you whole.
Bide your time,
survive on the leftover seeds,
dismantle the Hydra from the inside,
rewrite the program from within.
shed the tired cloak of apathy,
don the mask of alternate endings,
de-rail this present destiny.
Everything rides on you now,
everything rides on you.
The Kleptocracy broke my back,
but my mind is still intact,
and I know you can do better than I did,
believe that you can do better than we did.
I pray for your success,
pray for your safety and protection,
everything rides on you,
everything rides on you now.
December 8th, 2011
Poem | |
You are a human being they told me, something you should treasure
But isn't a human being the only animal who kills for pleasure?
Man's inhumanity to man, a crime like no other
The first family on earth had brother killing brother
We are power hungry bastards from the cradle to the grave
We pillage other countries and the survivors we enslave
Politicians lie to their people saying only what they want to hear
Stripping their own of a sense of pride and instilling a state of fear
They speak of human rights and how our country has been torn
Then turn around and murder a child before he's even born
For killers and rapists and dealers the ACLU has led many fights
Then tell a six year old rape victim that she really has no civil rights
We can't teach about Jesus, our school teachers must be mum
We can teach about Hitler, Stalin and other human scum
People kill each other for no reason every day
Then a lower form of life, a lawyer saves his day
Where is justice? Nowhere in sight.
Anything is legal if the price is right
You are a human being. This is what they proudly proclaim
If I am a human being, then I should hang my head in shame.
Poem | |
lady of the night
performs tricks in an alley....
father taught her well
Poem | |
It seems like everybody around me has forgotten,
they're stuck on a thought again,
saying alot and whining more.
Preying on their own self-doubts,
they have so much,
yet see so little.
Can't they see that 64 inch TV,
or feel the beating of the jets in their hot tub ?
They measure their lives too much,
they have fallen into the "Great American Dream Sham"
as my friend "Chad Williams Lowther" would say !
Its a ruse,
so they can make changes in their lives which they normally wouldn't do,
because they lack the strength and insight,
so they get stuck in their minds.
and the damn kids are really suffering,
cause they don't have the latest video gizmo box.
Thoughtless over-reactions of self- abuse,
much like an addict who is never satisfied.
"The Great American Dream Sham" sucked them in,
macroni and cheese,
saturday morning cartoons and matinees.
All replaced by todays goals and desires,
which are masquerading as tired souls trying to find solice,
stuck in "the Great American Dream Sham"
and now saying all there is to say,
Hail, Hail to me
and all who are free,
all who go their own way
and all who see though it !
Poem | |
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.