Long Charlatans Poems
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Tonight I will not write
of stars, nor moon,
seeds of wisdom--
just mind flattering
bloom--
Nor will I write of love--
neither here nor above;
though our dearest
sentimentality, the heart,
too often foolishly enacts
its own fatality;
and if I decide to write
(which I have not yet)
it will not be the common
dark vs light--
No, not this, low, literary-fruit
will I harvest, arm and lather;
pick high and low to gather--
likewise, I will divest of
good angels vs evil counterparts--
my rules, my pen; therefore, for me,
some spades can be clubs,
and all pointed diamonds I declare
are now well-rounded, suitable, hearts--
Nor will my Poetic-theme
be of great, vast seas;
nor smaller phrases
of streams—the writer’s
usual surge to roar
that calms to a sleepy bore….
and certainly not
will I write about depth
of self esteem--
the shallow image of self
often incapable of
of deep, worthy gleam;
though seldom do others
see us mere puddles
as we to ourselves
are wrong to deem
(though never approaching
the great-self,
alas, most of us
will only let dream)--
so, tonight, self for me will rest...
and if brought to theme
it will only be for rhyme, my easy best;
Oh! That Poetic Shopping-cart:
shelves of prose! Aisles of mesmeric gleams!
like Poe’s mystic schemes--
clouds feeding voraciously off headless peaks—
those fantastical shoulders we desperate writers
must climb if to find our lofty seeks--
all creative mind’s begging for such volcanic leaks—
No! I will not pontificate on these, for the best programmers
many do still believe are little more than
Charlatans or geeks--
Nor as subject will I attempt the Divine;
our soul’s hope to progress, as wine,
to some vintage state--though, without tasting,
when compared to life’s offered new...
such abstaining, perhaps, not worth
the spirit's residue--
Nor will I attempt metaphors yet more mysterious--
maybe, even delirious; though often told
such intoxicating views, like the morning dews
can be practical lifesaving for both greens and blues--
sadly, such pasture-valleys thoughtless men
have turned to breathless, rat-infested alleys;
No! Tonight
should I decide to write
I will write of other things…
I will write...hum….
I will write… simply, Goodnight….
whether you like it or not, your priest, your pastor, your minister,
your clergyman
of whom you hold the utmost regard,
whose very advice
you secretly tell yourself has been inspired by
the lord your god &
maybe even “jesus” himself,
may in fact hold a very
deep
dark
secret---
your clergyman or woman may have come to the
rational
conclusion,
a long time ago,
that what it was that they went to seminary for,
that what it was that they themselves thought in the deepest reservoir of their hearts,
that the pure unadulterated faith
which they once held onto like a child does their mother’s hand
when walking in the city,
which they once thought was so obvious &
real,
is nothing but a cheap hoax of the most serious kind,
&
that it is all a
lie---
at best, this lie which they are still taking part in,
is one which they think brings comfort to their
flock,
it pays their bills,
above all, they have no idea what they would do
if they turned their back on the whole sham now,
after
wasting
half
their
life
peddling religious smut like a pimp on a street corner.
huddled in their corner at home,
locked up in the closet,
they bite their nails and bear upon their backs the weight
of the lie growing like a cancerous tumor---
they may have friends who are clergy,
with whom they can speak of losing faith in a roundabout
manner,
by which both parties are made to feel more comfortable
when the ambiguous nature of a conversation finally gets down to the
nitty-gritty,
that this sham
this character was NOT born of a virgin
that this character did NOT walk on water
never cured a leper
never turned water to wine
never turned a few fish & a loaf of bread to a feast for
thousands &
was never crucified, dead & buried only to
rise again.
inside their minds is an explosion ready to awaken
millions
that finally, even the prime liars in this campaign of
deception that has lasted a few thousand years
is
breaking---
it is all a matter of time before the technology that we
have produced as a species cures our very fear of
death &
without the fear of death,
you will no longer need to be a slave to these
charlatans
that continue to beat you senseless with their
poorly written fiction.
get ahead of the curve &
scrap it all before your shepherds do,
making you look like the sap that you presently
are.
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are messages
Were written with an encrypted language
And need deciphering
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are words
Were written with all languages
And need reading
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are scattered dreams
Were robbed from the years of the life
And never come true
Only when the love shines in the hearts
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are a silent call
Only the familiar souls can hear it
The secret of its silence is still unknown
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are sharp arrows
Were made of senses and feelings
That are hitting hearts
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are migratory souls
Looking for homelands
All borders were closed in their faces
Till shining the sun of freedom
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are dresses and shrouds
Were woven from threads of the destiny
For showing the suffering of the humans
To know that sadness and joy will end in the grave
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are spells and talismans
Were written from the whispers of the devils
Uncovered the tricks of witches and charlatans
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are shy sighs
Were imprisoned unjustly in depths of the chests
Escaped from the dark prisons
Looking for remains of happiness in luminous prisons
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are hymns and prayers
Were written their tunes from the lights of angels
For curbing the desires and the lusts of sinners
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are stories and novels
Were written from the bloods of innocents
They are still without ends
Until the hope begins with writing the conclusion
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are white doves
Were created from the love
For spreading the peace
I, who now sit alone by this barren shore
Looking vainly out to sea as if
I thought I could espy distant Crete,
Have become a source of ridicule
Among these lesser men,
Who strut and title themselves architects
And brag of the hovels they erect and call palaces,
Built for the king of a land that knows no better,
But, ignorant of Geometry and of Number,
Are merely charlatans and young fools,
While I (an old fool) sit here unused and rusting.
I, who built the dread Labyrinth by command of Minos,
Where he imprisoned the monstrous Minotaur
And every ninth year sent seven girls and seven boys,
Tribute from a defeated Athens,
To their deaths in its dark depths
To be devoured by that mindless thing.
But when Ariadne asked for my help
To save her lover Theseus from that fate,
Foolishly I gave it,
And Minos turned his rage on me,
Imprisoning me and my son inside that very prison.
In my arrogance, I devised a plan
To escape from that which was inescapable.
And this I did, but still was trapped by the sea
And by Minos’ black ships that roamed it.
From wax and the feathers of seabirds
And by my knowledge and craft I devised wings,
And we soared into the cloud-flected sky,
Away from that island prison and free.
For hours we flew on our wings over the dark sea.
I took care not to fly too low,
Else the sea spray dampen the wings and make them heavy,
Nor to fly too close to Phoebus
In his daily journey across the sky,
Less the wax melt.
But my son forgot my warnings,
(Or perhaps I forgot to warn him; I can’t remember now),
And he flew too high and the wax melted
And he fell and the sea swallowed him.
I flew on then, alone,
Until I reached this primitive land
Far from Minos’ reach.
I burnt the wings,
And kept my name and my knowledge
Hidden from the people of this land.
And so I sit here idle,
While above me the birds fly
Where, once, I flew,
And gaze out to the sea
Where Icarus lies.
Much of my life has been in the environs of church activities,
some of which found me in the presence of 'faith healing evangelists'.
I do not mean to be, but I tend to be a natural sceptic; so I look deeper.
Therefore, I have often been internally inquisitive of what others say they saw. Even though both their eyes and mine were present, we often saw differently.
Me thinks sometimes we see what we want to see and create our own realities. I am by choice and by Divine Favor a person of faith and live within and outside the box. I am far more influenced and moved by 'the prayer of faith' from any 'unnoticed everyday believer' than by Faith Healers, and I have every reason to believe that The Lord responds to 'the unnoticed'. Moreover, it is the prayer of faith that saves the sick....*
I am much too rational for some and a bit radical for others; so I am not out to please. I have been in meetings of 'Faith Healers', but have witnessed far less realistic healings. I believe that there are bona fide mortals of giftedness who heal through faith in Christ, and I do not hesitate to say that I am often disenchanted by mortals, but always enriched in Christ. It's not that most of them are charlatans, because they are usually sincere in their faith, but I am inclined to believe that there is less substance and a lot more exuberant emotions.
It is unfortunate that dollar signs and the thirst for prosperity have outpaced healings exceedingly. Minus a few bad and ugly apples, my journey in the arenas of Faith Healers have been good. In spite of the misleading, the misfortunes, and the misplacements of 'faithful hopefuls', the True Healer, Christ, still heals. Faith Healing does not have to be denied, nor should all Faith Healers be placed in the same camp. Personally, I have always sought to have 'A Balanced Faith' that keeps me deeply rooted in Christ.
120220PSCtest, Faith Healer Poetry, Kai Michael Neumann
*James 5:15a
“The Wolf’s Pockets”
Virginia knows
what’s written
in the mass of a rock
the heaviness of words
not soluble
anchored to life
that does not float
A Wolf swallows Woolf whole
Hungry for something -
“other than” ;
Submerged,
what is not seen
is swimming below
a sharp clean surface
her dissolving shadow
found through slender fingers
wide spread and ink stained
running through shallow waters and
swaying reeds, something forgotten
like touching her child’s hair
combed with a soft brush;
free diving deeper
baptised, she touches Heaven
baby’s breath and
almond scented
Erin lilies like milk,
the sweetest let-down,
she drinks it all in
ignored by charlatans all bored
with their own faux wisdom
apathy flexes fits and moulds
around a body of work
sinks in deep and dry
a sunken treasure
to be found
some time much later
bound to tell a story
that travels down stream
The Wolf’s pockets
weighted with black treasure
open wide and beckoning
arms cast wanton alms
for plenty dreams and
sweet reckoning
infancy embraced again
the sleep of sleeps
and candour
like opium is taken in,
read, edited,
then,
silently missed
a
Final Draft is written
Read again
Read again
;
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
for my daughter
Georgia
https://youtu.be/BpyR9VxRRUo
Freefall/Robin Guthrie
“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Virginia Woolf
1. Virginia Woolf
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Woolf
2. The Let-down Reflex.
3. https://projectsemicolon.com/
https://www.facebook.com/projectsemicolon/
https://twitter.com/projsemicolon?lang=en
4. Beyond Blue
https://www.beyondblue.org.au/
imagined by others,
s/he is approached as the
perfect candidate,
s/he is that last
perfect
puzzle
piece,
which will make the whole
monstrosity,
complete &
not a shred of talent matters,
not a shred of ambition is
needed,
not a shred of ideals, not a
shred of intelligence, not a
shred of anything but the
will to obey for dollar bills &
the obligation to keep that
cocaine figure,
with a face that can be pumped
full of twisting
poison, as many contractual times
as possible,
as long as it brings in the
bucks,
as long as it makes the hormones
run,
as long as it makes the flailing hands
throw coins in the coffer
with silent hopes that a blowjob is
just down the line---
and when the marionette finally
makes it rain,
the puppet masters pulling the strings
edge back & hide behind the curtain
allowing for the fresh face
to suck up the credit &
dance the way they do best,
to the sounds of the cameras clicking,
the face**** posting (tattering smartphone
fingers ablaze), the light speed twattering
& the real time, still human,
amphetamine babbles that come
out as a side effect of anyone glued to
all said screens.
now these curious kitties finding
everything via the web, want to make
certain that the dancer is in fact the
author of the piece of work
which they’ve all be masturbating
to overnight,
as it goes viral &
sparks conversation for the first few
hours of the next work/school morning,
but as the hamsters all run on their
wheels,
somebody gets an inclination
that the marionette
swings from strings &
that the piece which they’ve all cum for,
really isn’t authored by the beautiful
face they thought they knew.
when confronted, the marionette’s
lips are sealed,
because it’s part of the contract---
it’s all part of the
contract &
the contract is what separates the
charlatans from those who actually
create anything
anymore.
the circumstance of his birth
had somehow become joined
to the circumstance of his life
raised on cowboys and Indians
when no bigger than a twig
alone on a little mattress
talking to limp cloth animals
explains much of this
chromosome damage no doubt
a chugging tractor discs the soil
a mile away growing unheard
as sleep opens its music box lid
my rapid pulse is transformed
and becomes visible as black spots
which begin to grow together
eyes begin to move independently
floating face up I think they are open
wishing they were lanterns instead of
window panes unable to blink back the view
held open by the weight of two images
the great mound of bones and teeth
scene of rituals unspeakable
sordid affairs and so ordinary
if they tell you there's no describing it
they'd better have a blank expression
victims of gravity searching for a place
where the war between the odds and evens
has not yet reached
wondering who invented tables and chairs
and calendars on the wall brittle and torn
by a wall climbing sun
pages flutter like moth wings
whispering parts of speech syllables
a screen door bangs dogs bark
crossing the linoleum a trail of ants
water drips in the sink
a moon rises over mobile homes
drawn in a circle against the dark
red flares line the highway at night
vagrancies outstrip the vacancies
with charlatans on every street corner
in a fervent denial of perception
before the rubble of the holy ziggurat
burnt offerings burnt heretic
having learned how to learn
he began to teach how to teach
finding fresh chewing gum
stuck under the diner counter
when is an idea dead and useless
you'll need to be able to spell dog and cat
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
http://tinyurl.com/nhfk6dr
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.site11.com/
Dr. George Gey from Johns Hopkins Hospital
Was looking for cells that would be reproducible
Of their own accord for the benefit of medicine
And lo and behold one day found the perfect specimen
And how he acquired it didn't rattle his conscience
Because there weren't any rules then that governed the science
So he made them immortal or maybe God did that
Then he gave them to others who sold them for profit
And the cells multiplied and aided discovery
And they probably will help cure cancer one day
But where did they come from, the specimen's human?
Those cells were extracted from a mother, wife, woman
Poor Henrietta or maybe Loretta
Was a work-a-day lady who hailed from Virginia
She married her cousin and bore him five children
Then after the war steel work took them to Maryland
One winter's day Hennie felt her womb knotted
"Hennie," said Day, "we should go to Johns Hopkins"
"Henrietta, you're pregnant but there's something else growing
And what's in your system for sure we're not knowing"
So commencing the testing and treatment for cancers
But for all of the prodding came not any answers
At age thirty-one Henrietta died painful
And to her baby Deborah she'd be a guiding angel
So imagine her shock when she learned about HeLa
The cell line immortal that came from her mama
As reporters and charlatans flocked to their family
Some of them claimed they could gather owed money
But more than the money was the need to acknowledge
What their mother had given and pay her due homage
So bear with me now as I offer this paraphrase
Of the beautiful refrain that her headstone articulates:
In loving memory of phenomenal Hennie
A woman wife mother who touched the lives of many
Here lies HeLa her cells helping mankind eternally
As the Love forever to you from your family
We have the left; we have the right.
In the political arena they both fight.
Always claiming to be on our side,
With ferocious rhetoric, opponents they deride.
Vote for us, to be saved from a vicious clan’s
Reckless and dangerous life ending plan.
So now it’s up to you and I
To decide, who is right and who tells lies.
Now I don’t know what works for you.
I judge not what they say; rather what they do.
For talk is cheap and taxes ain’t.
I’m in support of fiscal restraint.
Now this is a fact for all posterity;
A nation can’t spend itself into prosperity.
Both sides know that this is true.
But look at what the charlatans do.
They simply make a language adjustment;
Government spending renamed as investment.
So now it’s up to you and I
To decide, who is right and who tells lies.
The finger of accusation is pointed;
As our nation becomes disjointed.
Now both sides in self-righteousness claim;
The other side is the one to blame.
I’m not sure how you deduce,
But I look at the fruit they produce.
Who supports phony investigations;
The sole evidence of their own making.
Who supports keeping people in places;
Dividing them up into different races.
Who believes they can legislate prosperity;
Ignoring all of human history.
Who believes it a proper choice;
To slay the unborn who have no voice.
So now it’s up to you and I
To decide, who is right and who tells lies.
Media acts in a partisan manner,
Thus, I ignore their constant clamor.
People throwing bombs and firing weapons;
The very definition of insurrection.
When people gather to show disgust.
That is what is defined as a protest.
There are few neutral voices.
Everyone is always spinning choices.
So now it’s up to you and I
To decide, who is right and who tells lies.