(“The Mothership”, 2024, photo collage of original encaustics)
From the beginning of time bands and tribes
Have simply named themselves “The People”
Obviously to make a distinction
Between themselves and other animals,
Plants and rocks, spirits
And the other humans over there.
And from the beginning of time
They have probably used the excuse
“They’re not really people”
When getting into conflict with those others
And deciding they need to be controlled
Enslaved or eliminated.
We’ve seen it happen repeatedly to black Africans
To ethnic minorities wherever they are resistant to change
To the Jews en masse in Europe last century
And today with helpless fetuses the world over.
It is after all the best way to rationalize
Murdering those we don’t want
Or can’t control any other way.
It is after all important
To be able to sleep at night.
I’m sure there are alien motherships
Orbiting our planet right now
Watching as we struggle
To mature into celestial beings,
And I’m sure they’re saying the same,
“They’re not really people”
But with greater wisdom and compassion
Are also saying,
“Not yet.”
(10/12/25)
This world, womb we are cradled ,
Fetuses in oblivion, illusion bordering,
Unknown tomorrow, sealed faculties
Yet today’s now was future once unknown.
From a mother's womb we came to light’s embrace,
Yet entered in a bigger one
Awaiting the next form,
Each present form shaped in yesterday’s vast space.
Are we gestating still, for worlds unseen?
Or bound to dream within this womb serene
Our forms change to full circle
Perhaps emerging to that source
The energy triggered the big bang or beyond
Disagreement, discussion, and debate are not indicators of hate.
When fetuses die and their mothers no longer cry, we are practitioners of infanticide.
Becoming rich from a Washington hitch is evidence you are a crooked son of a be-itch.
Segregation and diversity mandates are damaging constructs designed to divide and each are a disgrace of equal distaste.
You need it to drive, you need it to fly, you need to buy, voter IDs are not Jim Crow and when you say so, it clearly shows who paints from a racist tableau.
Those who skew NEWS based on their political views are liars and should be considered pariah’s.
When you deny biology in favor of an alphabet ideology there can be but one conclusion; you are possessed by demons of delusion.
People who say God is not boss and reject Jesus’s work on the cross are wandering through life blinded and lost.
H ow many senseless murders
O rphans left by acts of war
W hich man will next receive orders
M aybe the world is tired of the gore
A nswer me if you can, is murder right
N ow tell, should fetuses be swept away
Y ou think because they'll your plight
A nd how long will God put up with man
N ow don't you think He's had enough
D o you think hundreds of murders each night His plan
H onestly don't you think we need to be ready
O pen our hearts to His love
W ithout the Holy Spirit our lives unsteady
L onging for something missing, that being the Holy Dove
O ptimistic or pessimistic analyze these words
N o! God is not happy with His highest creation
G hee, He still loves His birds!
God still loves mankind, but He wants mankind to love Him and each other.
(This poem is political satire;
don't read if you think you may
be offended. No truth in any of it,
considered by many to be
tasteless -- Not meant to be taken
factually nor literally -- Sincerely, Joe)
New strain of Virus detected
just a minute ago! Predominately
in Democrat run cities and states:
Seems to be 3 trillion times more
infective. CDC is calling it the,
S.T.U.P.I.D. Variant. University Staffs
hard-hit! Early signs, loss of Sense-
of-Smell, Gullibility, and increased
fetish for Designer Masks. Best
detected by examination of Cancel
Cultures -- microscopes prohibited
per Fauci. The most vulnerable group
seems to be those who have already
had 4 doses and 2 boosters. To treat
Fauci recommends, 4 doses and 2 boosters
for everyone, preferably administered
as young as the womb to developing
fetuses by his personally trained
omnipotent physicians at Unplanning
Parenthood -- Biden and Pelosi
say, God Bless America!
Teardrops born from
inflamed elated eyes.
Fetuses of euphoria
slips and slide down
thy cheeks for they
are genuine touch
that emblazon the
trail upon the abyss
of thy bosoms bare.
Come o thee, thy
desirous flames
and quench the
ardor of my thirst
that wanes in an
ancient domain of
soulless wanderers
tarrying for release
into a realm that is
yet unclaimed and
hail me beyond the
clutches of myself,
virgining an instilled
wonder. Venturous
being to be sprung
into the glory of the
true light, and then
stretch yonder from
this firmament hold
and embolden upon
a righteous climb to
heights unknown so
at the appointed tryst
with destiny, burst at
first, a tight existence
of brevity, ere I then
explode my essence
as an unfurling verse
of a red florentine for
eyes to behold and
breaths to yield into
submission, captives
that toys with their
emotions. Preying
upon fickle souls that
meanders yon my
presence, for I am a
simple soulless oddity
in their life.
Date: 06/16/2019
He looks
down upon
the men of this earth —
at our parade of balloons.
how we pop rubber fetuses — red, yellow, blue, green...
Methods: a pin prick, a pinch, a flame. Heart strings are disposed of.
7/16/2018
With a million things to say,
or nothing,
we are one.
You are my words-laden muse
and partner in silence.
Silence we can slip into
when my mistresses,
books
thoughts
moods,
want attention,
you a person who loves
words
and the spaces in between.
Silence like an old blanket
on the couch
that remembers our contours,
fitting like skin,
or a womb around twin fetuses,
tiny tremors passing from
your body to mine along the fabric,
mine to yours,
wordless
communion.
Love is in the words we share,
and the ones that can wait.
The tiniest seeds
stretch to touch the morning light;
nutrient craving
fetuses’ in Gaia’s womb,
must be nurtured very well.
For Contest: One Nature Tanka – Inspired By My Short Poem
She was pregnant
She named her daughter Emilia
She was quarantined
Daughterfreed
* Based on true stories of abortions of female fetuses in India.
I mourn the worst sorrows.
The shifty deception of
gullible children and
senile elders.
The blindness to reality
injected into many unlucky
fetuses, the worlds of
wonder they are born into,
smiling and ready to
accept these evil lies.
Like the wise men and women
they were, they rejected
their own teachings and
trampled upon the covenants
of their fathers, replacing
them with the tyrannical
anarchy of natural man,
forever a beacon in the vacuum,
a warning to those who dare
dance at the edge of the forest,
and dip their feet in the water
of unclouded streams.
Seeking a Truth
The sewers under the abortion clinic
is where successful rats live and only
the strongest survives.
From the bland food of suburbia and
narrow minded excrements, unwilling
given back to the drains and nature.
These big rats have survived to sit by
the top table and be respected as those
who deserves a prize for endurance.
They live on sludge of fetuses, tiny fingers
small, beating hearts; also, clean livers;
and the rats grow and reason as humans
Rich rats now have an army of lesser
rats to defend them, nothing last always,
but for some it ended before it began.
This is the great big world we will see.
It begins inside this hatchery.
Since Our Ford made it reality,
it has been home for both you and me.
These are the children of tomorrow.
Give them happiness without sorrow.
In harmonious community,
we are strong with solidarity.
Zygotes renew our identity;
each a pillar of stability.
We will expand our society.
It is possible with you and me.
From the alpha down to epsilon,
the quilt is sewn at each echelon.
We insure that life shall carry on
We shall make each stitch continuous.
All our borders are contiguous.
With Ford’s help, it shall be congruous.
Take pride in your working as you go.
Care for the fetuses. Watch them grow.
These are the children of tomorrow.
Based on the 1932 novel "Brave New World" by the late Aldous Huxley
There is no greater darkness now than the desert sun,
…no sorer sight for her mournful eyes than this,
An apocalyptic jumble of craters and rippling dunes,
The corpses of skyscrapers, the fetuses of malls,
All of them half-buried by the shifting sands…
It speaks to her of Hell, this yellow-ochre world,
Of demons and death and slow decay
It whispers in her ear, a death rattle, a death knell,
Until she shudders and retreats into her earphones,
Into those two slender cords that are her only escape…
Obedient the music rises, drums in her ears,
Rumbling like the thunder of the distant sea she misses,
It is a grateful reprieve…
And yet nothing can drown out the visions she sees,
No matter how much she wishes her eyes sewn shut, no matter
How she squints and peers, searching for beauty, a scrap of it,
A morsel of loveliness for her starving soul amidst this abyss,
These devouring dunes of ugly marching doom dominate,
Oppress, they loom over her like titans, ready to collapse in a wave
Of golden fire and swallow her whole, until she can see the sky no more…
1.
My grapefruit tanned
toothpicks
bow above
the five-day flattened
spot
in an olive shag carpet
tracing grandpa Leo's
blueprint,
with one encapsulated
toe –
this is the femur, this is
the head,
this is the fist, the ring
finger, the soul.
I search for any blunt
white quivering slivers
of Caroline's purported
fly fetuses.
2.
Huddling behind the
corpse
of an old hospital bed,
a framed photo
smoke browned and
wearing my toddler face,
watches
his children choke
hushed, broken
sentences
this will be yours, my
plate, separate the
holiday china…
an enigmatic language
that hovers in
smoke stretched rings
to wilt
upon the hallway
bulb.
3.
I am left
the ceramic cygnet,
and an ivory carved
dromedary.
These artifacts
plucked
from his porcelain
menagerie
that I decipher
through dust fingerprints
for
one small inheritance of
a memory.
4.
Tomorrow,
Aunt Rose
puts price
to his bibelots,
the olive shag carpet,
even cousin Amy's
plastic horse,
who was accidentally
left to pasture on an
afghan.
A silver plated glass cage
image of her past,
she says she will whittle
all of him,
from the
wooden
house
bones.
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