Freedom was fought and won.
We're now free to choose our destiny.
Best to follow our conscience.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
Gratia et Veritas
Our conscience bears witness
(in the way thoughts are excused)
Our conscience bears witness
(in the way actions are accused)
Our conscience bears witness
(though inner self bemused)
Our conscience bears witness
(through God’s grace unabused)
Words do not always need to be loud;
they can be quiet,
kept hidden behind the outburst of a closing door,
or the hasty shutting of a window,
or the abrupt pulling away of a chair:
all of which can be called silence.
It has its own comfort zone,
at least for me now,
filled with the lingering air,
as though the air were scented with the perfumes of Arabia,
which could never sweeten Lady Macbeth’s little hand;
yet the perfume was not silent;
it carried loudness within.
Karma returns in silence.
Although the path toward heaven or hell
never remains unheard,
it is a long, hard road until the last dawn.
It is only me, myself, and my karma,
bearing every other entity within me
and negotiating with them
through my only companion: Silence.
I need to be heard in silence,
need to be nurtured in quietness,
need to perform without being noticed,
need to remain steady in my stillness.
I wish to be trapped in silence;
it might be a celestial trap,
where the trap itself is worshipped,
because it is a religion.
Time has no conscience
Plays no favorites
Sets the same metronomic tone
For everyone
It doesn’t drag
Nor does it wait
It cannot be saved
Or lost
It just is
For it is cursed
To be timeless
Conscience, thank you for keeping us honest, for helping us from being dishonest.
Conscience, we hear you well, we did all of our chores and plan on acting swell.
Conscience, we felt bad when we knew our friends were acting like a low-life scum, we had to come to terms that they lacked remorse and truth in their conscience.
Conscience, thanks for always pushing us, for leading us to act like humans, for never giving up on the ones that you think are worth it.
Conscience, we will work each day to keep ourselves clear of any bad acts, and make ourselves have a clear conscience.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
War
Brewing
On the verge
With one own self
Mirror tells no lies
Staring back in despair
Heart races with time in hope
The demon in me does not wake
From the deep slumber of my conscience
Breaking the shackles of my remorse
To prey on the less suspecting
And rejoice at their anguish
Avenging every scar
Inflicted on me
And returning
To dust; Yields -
To death;
Peace.
My hands in the autoclave
It is no disaster
No mistake
Complete sterilization
Not quite yet cremation
Free of my predation
I crawl through a cavernous cave
Its wet walls perspiring
Nooks like glands
Gulleted by the monster
Steep feet without falter
Skull space I foster
I lay in a shallow grave
No need for depth
In this loamy cradle
No longer death I seek
But whatever keeps me weak
Hyphae drink the fluid I leak
Protected; not me, but you
Dissected; they bore me through
An ending to my disgrace
Put me in my place
The world descends into darkness
with each turning wheel of the sun.
Our hearts grow heavy with starkness,
an emptiness we can’t outrun.
In the black pit of midnight,
we do not fall asleep.
We welcome the year with solemn might,
yet by break of day, our vows don’t keep.
We grasp at frivolous dreams,
believing they might save us still.
The world unravels at the seams
as power, looks, and lust shape will.
We toast to new ambitions—
the promotion, the figure, the balance.
All self-focused missions
to build our private palace.
But the grain must die,
or it withers alone.
Self-focus is a subtle lie
that beneath the world’s weight groans.
Yet with each crisp ring,
the old bells still call—
atop the steeple, they sing,
arms spread wide to break our fall.
How long will we wander
in this murky midnight hour,
promised better dreams yonder,
only to turn our souls sour?
All the while, He waits
and counts down time.
As we count up, clocking fate,
He counts down to the final line.
Midnight bells—
they ring,
they sing.
Oh, those midnight bells,
a truth
we cannot mute.
Guilty Conscience
Spare my soul
Forgive my Spirit
Cleanse my mind
Redirect my thoughts
Rebuild my sense
Boost my motive
Energize my strength
Heaven isn't far away
Hell is always inbound
My eyes are hazy
My faith is wavy
The graveyard is ready
But my salvation is steady
Surviving_Pawn
Joplin was to Southern Comfort
what Hendrix was to smack
Morrison was to masquerade
what Dylan never lacked
Woodstock was to boomers lost
what music is to rhyme
Saigon was to those who stayed
what Auschwitz now reminds
Kennedy was to hopes and dreams
what nightmares are to some
Castro was to leftist thugs
what cymbals are to drums
Kissinger was to Nixon
an Appian Way to roam
Dr. King to civil rights
what kings are to their thrones
Walter Cronkite was to news
what context is to fact
Altar boys to feral Priests
what pretzels are to snacks
58,000 were to die
a wall would then proclaim
58,000 were to all
— what conscience is to shame
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
Bother less,
If you are denied deserving glory,
And their obsession you can’t guess,
Since their thoughts are dark and gory.
Keep forging forth your brilliance,
Let them keep dancing in their guilts;
They only strengthen your resilience —
Keep making your work gleams with gilts.
Your talent they can’t entrap;
In time, it will escape their greed.
Their arrogance your verse will sap,
Since myopia forms their creed.
The more your gains, the more their pains;
So they find salt to rub into your injuries.
Tie down their conscience with long chains —
Not too bad if you, too, sour their gingeries.
Your heart bleeds, already pale,
Yet they wrap their wickedness in scorn.
Their envy too tall for truth to scale —
So unleash your wrath — and make them mourn.
good conscience smirks~
veiled beneath the weight of pride
truth unmasks my lies
Freedom is not carte blanche
knowing right from wrong comes with responsibility
~ karma will be ever watchful
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd palce 2025
In the wilderness of bewilderment,
Sculpting different sorts of thoughts,
Where intent fades, needing no interment,
And truth exudes from all its rots.
There lies the stark resolve for my future,
A slender hope of life ahead,
Bound together by a catgut suture,
That time corrodes until it's shed.
All kept away from prying eyes,
Ever before my intent was conceived,
Just to keep all sane minds apprised,
And safeguard each new blessings just received.
Intent is wordless, lost in speech,
Etched as imagery – symbol of hope,
Quavering conscience stays unbreached,
Through the darkness of intense doubt it gropes.
I am the voice of your conscience
You would bury my memory
Erase me from your history books
But I refuse to go away, I refuse to die
Here I am today, thousands of years after
you would have buried me in Modi’in…
in Jerusalem… at the tip of Mohammed’s sword…
in Torquemada’s Spain… in Luther's ‘Reformation’
In your swarming Eastern and Western European ghettos
in Czarist Russia, in Stalin’s USSR, in Hitler’s Third Reich
in Poland, Lithuania, Egypt, Syria Lebanon, in ‘Palestine’ too…
Yet I, the Jew, voice of your conscience, stand my ground
To remind you that my unshakeable love of God and my People Israel
is stronger than your visceral hatred of my redoubtable faith...
For 'Mother Russia,’ 'Nationalist China,’ 'America the Free’ will go the way
of Ancient Greece and Babylon ~ but I shall still be around…
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