Best Gd Poems
The God Reset
All Hail the mega-Temple brokers!
The Heavenly stock sellers
Chomping at the bit
Who parade in their Gucci suits
Escorting you comfortably
(like Kings)
Into “the Kingdom”come.
Beware:
Its a counterfeit kingdom
Not the real deal.
(Love money, much?
(Oh, but we won’t really actually tell you if we don't think you'd be a good “asset” in “our" Kingdom--)
They seem like they know something
You don’t know-- their words seem so godly,
Their knowledge of spiritual things so impressive-but then you hear them prognosticate:
“And did you know,
A ‘powerful message’ can be yours if you only throw
a few shekels our way today?”
(of course, they don’t exactly say it that way)
Coming straight from GD!
And advocate for a Kingdom that runs on cash.
They’ll happily seat you in
The First row,
Sell you a religious show,
Put the God mirror out in front
Of your sorry old face and sell
Repentance.
And then, when you repent, (properly and self-consciously)
they’ll grab you by the shoulders,
Hug you, and then ask you if you
Want to join the church...
“Looks like a Winner”, they silently intone, as you
Reach for your wallet.
Now they’ve sold you a
False Christ.
And you weren’t even in on the deal!
You thought you were sincere!
You didn’t sign up for a
Dead-end religion that would steal your
Joy, and maybe even your new-found love for GD-
You signed up for a
New Life.
Beware of the status-quo christians,
The little”c” christians
The walking dead,
Frozen Chosen
Lack of real emotion,
Preaching a gospel
Of “Cultural Churchianity”.
It’s not the real
thing-- the Christ-centered gospel that
Calls for a clean heart, and a
Clear conscience--
A gospel that has nothing to do with
The brand of your clothes, the number
Of dollars in your Bank Account,
The car in your garage, or the paid-off mortgage!
Wake up,
Heaven Brokers!
Your “stock” is rapidly falling,
And Christ is getting tired of calling
Cuz you hung up your gD- phone long ago,
When you let greed and fame
Consume your soul.
I repent of my sins against Thee...
(Oh good god! Good god have mercy!
and f-ck it all! F-ck the whole GD thing!)
Oh God, what have I done?
Forgive me of my blasphemy
Forgive my sins against Thee
Forgive my sins against her
Oh God, forgive my cruelty
Oh God, forgive my selfishness
Oh God I fear thee greatly
Oh God I fear thy vengeance
Oh Thou great and gracious God
God of the universe, of all creation
Forgive me, have mercy upon me
Oh God, I do not deserve Thy Grace
Oh God, I do not deserve Thy Mercy
I repent of my sins against Thee...
9/3/2014
Tim Ryerson
After chewing shoe leather they called steak,
in the Pencey cafeteria,
Mal, Ackley, and I enjoyed a winter afternoon on campus,
on the bus, and in a restaurant.
We walked across a puffy white quilt
as students conversed, laughed, and threw snowballs.
I held my snowball until the bus driver told me to leave it outside.
We had intended to see a comedy with Cary Grant,
but Mal and Ackley had already seen it.
We hung out in the restaurant played pinball and ate burgers.
Arriving back at our dorms at a quarter to nine,
Mel left for a bridge game
and Ackley shoved his acne ridden face into my pillow
until I told him I had a paper to write.
I couldn’t write what Stradlater wanted.
I couldn’t describe any rooms without elaborate furniture.
I couldn’t describe sporty rooms
with trophies on dressers and pennants on walls.
My brother Allie played baseball.
He wrote poetry on his catcher’s mitt with a green pen.
He stood in right field and recited verse from his imagination,
in his mind.
He died from leukemia very young.
I fell into a depression,
a garage,
a gym with windows to punch out.
I broke my hands against our station wagon’s windows.
I cannot make a tight fist.
I curl my fingers enough to type excerpts of Allie’s poetry
for a paper that will never be appreciated.
My red headed brother Allie,
such a good natured kid,
he had a good combination of extrovert and introvert,
avoiding anger.
Sitting on his bike fifty yards away
with his hair shining in the sun
as I teed off,
hoping to make a distant green and shoot under par.
Mom had scored a hole in one with him.
I still try to overcome unidentified handicaps
on a hazardous course.
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If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on SmashWords.com. Enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.
“PLEASE DON’T LIE TO ME ANYMORE”
Please don’t lie to me anymore
I am your friend and not your whore
Should I move on or just stay where I am
Is our partnership real or just a sham
Please don’t lie to me anymore
I wait for you and wander what’s in store
Betrayal I feel no true love exists
Signs all around, stupid I feel, things I missed
Please don’t lie to me anymore
I try not to sleep all day and keep my feet on the floor
I wanted to be your partner, your friend for life
Tradition out the window, your husband, not your wife
Please don’t lie to me anymore
I can’t take it, breaks my heart, please no more
The times we spent together, forever I will adore
But please just don’t lie to me anymore….
g.d. 05/13/16
Old Spencer, smelling of grippe, drugs, and death,
he couldn’t bend over to pick up chalk, magazines,
and failed acknowledgements of stupidity.
He certainly reveled in my foolishness.
“Modern science would still like to know what the secret ingredients were
that the Egyptians used when they wrapped up dead people.”
Funny, how people snub any disregard for my self-worth,
I could always smell a phony.
As if picking his nose allowed Spencer to hold his head high,
my presence was only preceded by three other competent institutions.
Success will overlook a booger.
Failure hones selective pride.
I felt it was important to know where park ducks went in winter.
Mayhap they occupied a posh New York hotel.
I left Elkton Hills for selfless reasons.
Attitudes make me cold.
There must be something grander than academia,
like being a good parent or having a large vocabulary.
It is easy to find reasons for disliking people.
They could be old and repetitive.
They could shake the wrong person’s hand.
They could be sarcastic,
exercising their passive aggressive skills after similar provocation.
It seems living can be a circle of depression.
Growing up is difficult if you’re not in the game.
Hot shots always make the rules.
They have an inside track on linear success,
always elated,
blubbering on about how good life is.
They lounge around in their warm homes dressed in bathrobes,
reading The Atlantic Monthly, drinking their hot chocolate.
You can hear them at the edge of your senses, concerned about your destiny,
hedging their own reputations and possible futures,
shouting in barely comprehensible tones from behind closed doors,
“Good Luck!”
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If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on SmashWords.com. Simply enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.
Thuglife is a real thing,
you got children out on the streets playing with guns,
selling drugs and even going so far as to sell themselves for a little bit of money,
thinking that it's cute to be down with the bloods, gd, crips, latin kings, and all the rest.
Thuggin up is the way of life they say,
but here I am as a witness that its not.
I used to run with the gangs,
thought that was hot, it was the stuff.
Friends got shot and I didn't care at the time.
Was a runaway from foster care, and
got busted one day trying to be down with the gang life.
Picked up for shoplifting because the old head told me to,
Placed in a group home, pregnant,
Was an evil young lady and just used to cuss everyone out.
Placement showed me the way and showed me who God is.
Used to get beat by the old head and thought that I deserved it,
I was his property and that's how it went.
Reality kicked in when I got sent to the group home,
Old head left me even though he knew I was pregnant,
Said don't come back till you ready to handle the knifes again,
I didn't play with the guns and glocks, I had knifes instead,
I was glad when I got out and lucky that no one shot me when I did.
It ain't usually that easy to get out of the thuglife,
you either get jumped out or shot up and 9 times out of 10
either way it goes you going to die, because
you know they every move and they scared you going to
snitch. Thuglife aint no joke its a real thing.
Every time you walk into my space,
Everything that’s real about me,
Gets erased.
Somehow, it always ends up
My mistake—
Comatose I am,
to my own fate.
I have decades, years
Not knowing how--
Can I fix this ever,
If not now?
Every step closer, you’re closing in on me,
You say cruel things
And then say you’re “helping me”
There’s always Doubt— anxiety needs approval:
I’m still inside this hole and
You won’t hasten my removal.
Will you leave me stuck here?
I bend and bow, and
Bow and bend then try again, somehow-
try once more, again, to get “me” back on track,
Sometimes it feels like “me” is
Never coming back.
Broken me feels lost and helpless,
Ripped with pain,
Broken is still broken,
No matter who’s to blame.
You become a non-person
It happens slow—
you don’t deserve to be respected, didn’t you know?
Everything you say is questioned, your life is made a lie--
You broke their hearts, you nasty person, just lay down and die!
Suffering’s hard, and so is pain,
But there’s no one here to stop me, except me, and its become a game...
Of keeping tabs and hoping you’ll never see how broken I've become-
Yet your words against me are only lies, one day the curse will be undone.
One day, you’ll get a glimpse of your iceberg cold
Heart
The Deja vu police’ll
Catch up to you when speeding on a lark,
And ticket you for lying to GD, pretending--
You were only playing Peacemaker,
Your devotion neverending…..
Oh the Horror of admitting
You were in fact, Ego-sitting!
Then it will be plain,
It was YOU who commanded me to wear the Scarlet
Letter,
Not because I sinned, but because you needed to be
“Better”.
But until then, ‘dear’ Christian(s)
Who committed me to this
Hole,
You currently offer generous condolences to
Yourself, not me, the
“Infidel”…
Parading your mirrored mask,
Your friendly smile--now its on, now its off-- just like a faucet
While behind closed doors you
Spread derogatory gossip—
And there can only be an ugly end to this
Charitable epistle,
I wash my hands of them, and wait for their delusionary lies’ dismissal.
Those who stake their lives on
Crying Wolf may
Seem to have the upper hand,
yet Gd sees through their fake disguises--
and always remains in command.
Patiently waiting
with unseen surprises,
Blatantly ripping off
Their dark, dirty
disguises.
Nerves hang out at the idle pump
Gas don't pump itself thinks Mr. Rich
While Bubba plants himself out front
Like an un-watered flower in the sun
Picks his nose and spits tobacco
Scratches private parts at no extra charge
Snorts, “Talk is cheap.” “What-l-it-be boy.”
The idle rich don't speak hillbilly
The sun-glassed man points at premium
A finger is a dialect Neanderthals understand
Red necks preferred language over clicks and grunts
That comes with understanding inbred afflictions
Eloquently executed elocution with a simple digit
To replace the usual marbles in the mouth chatter
Chewed up words spit out as garbled
Not fit for consumption under a hot Texas sun
Who said anything about manners?
Mr. Sun-glasses just wants some GD gas
Not reptilian conversation
When you don't know English you pump
Petroleum comes from fossilized plants
Formed over billions of years
Why must we wait for man to arrive
Over eons for creation to take place
For the simple evolution of a smile
It's not like there is a line stretched for miles
To buy some petroleum products
From a creature covered in grease
Standing there with hose in hand
Wondering with his best laid plans
How to spell gas and make change
And how to propose to his cousin
I'm tired as I'm about to expire trying to conspire to take my education higher where to
the world I am sire
I get tired of people getting PELL I'm this, I'm that, I'm there, I'm where; I'm here
and about to fail as I go through hell while creditors stalk me through the mail
My blood bleeds success but I must confess if I wasn't blessed, I'd be a mess because
I'm obsessed with being the best
But as life gets hard, I wonder if my start will end before it begins over a test of my
heart,
The struggle still needs to be fought over freedom of thought
While I try to stay Mr. 4.0 somebody can decide my chest needs a zero because of some
stuff that wasn't worth cero over some de niro and they really think they Pacino
I don't want to be a King or a GD, a Cobra or a BD, a Four Corner Hustla or SGD, I just
want to be me and it's hard to do that with walking through these streets because they
don't understand peace; all they understand is heat from a piece
Why life gotta be so tough?
Why I gotta be prove I'm rough?
Why people gotta come in my face and talk stuff?
Isn't just being black enough?
Why when I take these streets guys gotta look at me and wonder if ima turn my hat to the
west or the east; why my mind can't be free to study culinary and get off 87th street
I pick up a paper and I get scared of terror alert red or anything Bush has said about
the children in Africa getting fed or the blood in the Middle East being bled but as my
tears turn red because I read about a girl who took lead in the head because she wanted
to get ahead and grow up to be a fed at least that is what the line of the head said but
she will never be able to come home to her bed
Life is a gamble or a try
College is suppose to be a smooth ride and that's a lie because I don't know if ima live
from the bus ride to the El ride
but
I'm this, I'm that, I'm where; I'm here
Form:
I remember really feeling this void ...
I mean its really kinda hard to explain ...
It was 1985 in December ...
A month later in this world I came ...
I remember having complications...
Nurses screaming baby breathe.. but i cant??
The doctor said I mite not make it ...
Cause there's was too many drugs in ur veins
Crack baby was my very first label...
SMH that's a gd shame...
I remember being 11 years old...
blood dripping down my nose like paint ...
Unconscious on that bathroom floor...
they saying there something wrong with my brain ...
30 years with Attention Disorder ...
I remember your the one I blame ...
And I still don't have a clue where I came from ...
My birth mother's still M.I.A...??
I remember when my heart held hope..
And one day I would see your face ...
At this point I don't even need closure..
I guess its just a little to late ..
The only thing that we will ever have in common ...
just the sequence in our D.N.A...
Did you know that you have grand daughter...
Another child that you'll never embrace ...
I remember what hurts the most ...
I don't even know your name..
wrt ptry fr yrslf nd fr n-ne ls nt vn gd
During the COVID lockdown,
"Yours Truly" became "Spend Cast"
All those stimulus checks...Gone!
Now, just figments of the past.
I bought way too many Sox,
I bought way too many Shoes
I bought way too many T-shirts
I think I caught "Consumer Blues!"
Bought a lot of funny Hoodies,
And bought "Six" Damascus Knives!
Bought Boxers by the dozen,
Oh, how would my funds survive?
If I had back all the "Coin"
That I gladly threw away,
Like those G.D. "Lotto Tix"
I'd be a "Wealthy Man" today!
Dear Guardian Angel
O dear guardian angel,
Why do you pick these wee night hours
For your dances of invisible radiance?
Aren’t you to be leaning over
In cradling protection while I sleep?
Instead, your cape of praises gleans
From my soul an aura so rich
That I think I, too, must rise
To join into an embroidered minuet.
Why not join instead
In some hours of respite?
Aren’t you worn from my day of birth
To seven decades of caring for me?
From nursing me through long hours
Of anguished inquiries? And doesn’t
It try you to watch my feet
Stutter across floors with you, thus,
Saving me from too numerous falls?
My walking must sound to your ears
Like the pianist’s tinkling the keys
Along from mid to high C.
I read, years ago, that the great
Artist Titian admitted he hadn’t really
Seen the way to his true
Creating process until he was 90.
I wonder now, O dear angel, how long
You will continue to dance past my bed,
Aligning with inspiration,
Since this aging poet has only recently
Discovered a trove of interior scrolls
Needing to be shared?
Why not surround us both in the veil
Of your unfolded wings, putting
3 A.M. voices to rest in the darkness
Of closed eyelids? Let us dance
Our praises to God in Eden’s lullaby.
******************************************.
(C) sally young eslinger 2020
All thanks be to Gd
Thought I perhaps should let all my friends see,
How touched I was on finding this letter to me,
Found by mistake, after so many years,
I collapsed into buckets of tears,
A treasure bequeathed to me, was meant to be.
POST-SCRIPT:
As the writing is faint
in the scan above I have typed it out
for ease of legibility.
Abu Ben Adhem
(poem by Hunt, James Henry Leigh)
(1784-1859)
Has been translated in Greek by
Dimitrios Stais (as per manuscript
in possession of his son Panos Stais)
This small note is sent to
Jennifer Alan Hunt, the great
grand-daughter of Dimitri
Stais.
Of course, poems of many other
authors of this "English Verse"
Oxford Book were translated
in Greek by Dimitris Stais,
but I simply make mention of
the one titled as above because
of the author's name. (HUNT)
May I express the
wish, dearest Jennifer, that
one of the future editions of
Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
comprise some of your cherished
poems.
With lots of love
your gd father
Panos
Athens 19th December 1968
Dumbass Genius Farm Boys Paradigm
David J Walker
“Genius” may have been the most ironic of all
The four-letter adverb monikers daily applied
To describe the general dissatisfaction
With any and all work performed on the farm
“Way to go Genius” was the norm as
The tearing down process was performed
Can you be a Genius and a Dumbass
at the same time
as you chime in
too late to make any sense
of the Dumbass-Genius farm boy paradigm
“What do you think Genius” was the question
To the obvious answer that goes without saying
To any coherent thing in the Kings English spoken
With a deep Texas drawl
“I know y’all aint that GD Dumb…dumbass”
“Y’all aint from round here, are ya Genius”
I couldn’t believe it either, but I was and
I could drop the F-Bomb with the best of ‘em
Forming a drawled word you’d never heard in the
Middle of a sentence never spoken in
Sunday school
“Hey Genius, get yer ass over here”
I’d heard that demand so many times that
I’d planned to send my ass and leave the
Rest of me behind
But that will be next time
Dumbass Genius