Long Stiff necked Poems
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So, is this personification
of political systems?
asked the organic ecologist.
Or politicization
of intimately
yet transcendently
secular and sacred
personal economic-nutritional analysis
of health-wealth trends?
asked the macrosystemic economist,
in his rather too long projecting way
of exploring means
and medians
and in-betweens.
And both?
asked the theologian
after listening to each as Other,
DefaultNetworkAssociations (DNA)
betwixt enscriptured lines
of historical metaphonics.
Just because we do not reside together,
sharing identical labels,
need not mean we journey apart.
Just because my neighbor,
my enemy,
those I don't know,
those I fear,
former friends and family who have angered me
believe in a personal God
the Supreme Straight White Father theology
does not mean they,
like I,
can not also feel Earth's climate
like an interpersonal Gaian ecology
of healthy sacred regenerative emergence
into a win/win superlative
rapturous future life together
more healthy than residing degeneratively apart.
We all speak the same emotional language.
Humor and health, good and bad,
speaks and sings and dances and enacts
and dirges and reacts
a universal win/win,
win/lose,
lose/lose bilateral climate language;
eco-political heaven
and hell,
and all that lies more mundanely in-between
killing us climate softly.
Just as adolescent loss
of a lover to suicide
steps into an endless shaming/blaming toxic story
of depression,
ego-repression,
ecosystemic suppression
of positive affect,
of hope for healthy relationship,
of faith in wealthy resonant communication,
So too
it is not theologically
or ecologically
or ego-rationally insane
to fear,
and become angered by
genocide of our entire species
shamed by our own stubborn win/lose dissociation,
climate capital-pigheaded
stiff-necked degeneration,
rabid suicide ideation
through lack of Golden Rule Rapture,
win/win integrity,
theo-eco-ego triumphal integration.
Sometimes ya get the unction
To systematically function
In the footsteps where giants have been
Delegation, infiltration
Ruling a sovereign nation
Where time runs the gambit, again, and again
Deliberation, legislation, intonation
Singing the melody of the Shun
We will not bow, nor give allegiance
To the entity that causes us grievance
Stiff-necked, proud ridden thugs
Treading the roman way
Banners high, waving to the sky
We will squash your rule over us like a ladybug
Land, territory, nations, world
Not a clue that He has a girl
Rising from the south
With TRUTH in her mouth
.....silencing the SHUN
Written by Trudy Schrader on 11/16/2021
“You stiff-necked people, with uncircumcised hearts and ears! You are just like your fathers: You always resist the Holy Spirit! Was there ever a prophet your fathers did not persecute? They even killed those who predicted the coming of the Righteous One. And now you have betrayed and murdered him— you who have received the law that was put into effect through angels but have not obeyed it.”
Acts 7:51-53
All who were sitting in the Sanhedrin looked intently at Stephen, and they saw that his face was like the face of an angel.
Acts 6:15
THE STONING OF STEPHEN
Before Stephen fell asleep, he gave a sermon.
It culminated into a bold accusation t’wards the leaders.
The Sanhedrin, with the high priest, would determine
The fate of this angel-face. They were breeders
Of contempt, accusing God’s man of blasphemy.
They were teeth-gnashers, stuffing their ears with glue,
indignant, jealous, furious. They would rob Stephen’s vitality.
This follower of Jesus is never alone, heaven’s in view:
“Look,” he said, “I see heaven open
and the Son of Man standing
at the right hand of God.”*
Clasping their ears, they rushed at him,
Yelling in full view of the glory of God, not
Seeing nor hearing, choosing their dim
View of life. It was evil they sought.
They snatched him, dragged him out of the city.
Were those chosen stones unearthed from hell?
Upon a saint of God, they took no pity.
They were underneath Satan’s spell.
This favored of God, they could not ignore.
A Sanhedrin bull in full vent with dust and smoke.
Truth will shake powerful men to the core.
Arms and legs like chariot spokes,
The high-horse pretenders lambast
the great orator with great force.
Stephen would soon meet the holy cast
Of forefathers…most importantly life’s source.
Another man is enthralled, also blind
To the goads he’s kicking at. He’s in his heyday,
a young man giving approval to death, the kind
of man Stephen prayed for in this way:
“Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”*
8/8/2021
*Acts (from the Bible)
i can never tell you how displeased readers
are by that position the singular
moment when nothing makes any sense
to them at all but only to a few brilliant pebbles
that soar across the night canvas unknown
to the dullards of academia
it is the ONLY reason
i write; to express self to those very few
who HEAR ME.
the rest are noise and there is no
time for wasting one's artistry on rigid brains
and stiff necked human-geese.
Then again, my imagination never demands
an audience of understanding but more
of an emotional receptivity.
A slumbering shadowy cloud-vignette
seeping from a tormented mind onto
freshly sliced paper cuts.
This is the color red screaming in a dying ink stroke.
All inside of me is all i have. The 'be careful' took
leave upon wings last dreaming evening of reprieve |
a mind wondering if wondering is real
to show me is love if upon the wind of life and how
is lovely sitting upon a window sill while being
productive (at the sink doing dishes)
if more is heavier than thought
then more is the anchor of all tears
/to tell do please : what imagination never demands
-- that audience of understanding.
just tears.
:: 01.02.2022 ::
At first we had traumatic stress
just being born
and later shock of near death,
physical and mental,
natural and spiritual,
lack of health
and unsafe, messy wealth.
Then traumatic cultural stresses
grew up into a global syndrome
of sad neglect
toxic fueling chronic depression,
multicultural repression
caste suppression,
cognitive and affective
double-binding dissonant
multigenerational dissociation.
Then post-traumatic historic stress syndrome
swept up panic attacks,
disabling shell shock,
invasive violent cultural shlock,
long-term victimization locks,
criminalization ad hoc
legislated abominations,
violent domestic and national monoculturing schools
of semi-thought through
flowing pure and healthy imaginations
creeping toward chronic creepy anxiety,
lose/lose de-nihilistic codependency,
mutually assured destruction
in bloodless
micro-annihilating pools.
Now we have pre-traumatic herstoric stress syndrome
for ever more biocultural pathology
in internal
and external climates,
venues,
lyrics and lessons,
narratives of unraveling devolutions
inevitably heavy self-implicating
stiff-necked stubborn scales
In-between disempowering monoculturalism
monopolistic monotheism
ego-privileged anthro-supremacism,
economic ecological lack of co-invested empathy,
And enlightened EarthPatriotic resonance
anxiously anticipating
polycultural revolutions
sustaining robust health care
ecosystemic wealth.
Why does it matter
if we sing or dance or call
"Make American Trauma Again"
pre- and post-suffering
the greatest response of all?
Isn't trauma of unrelenting win/lose competitions,
of StraightWhiteMale aggressive monoculturalism,
mono-egotheism,
monopolistic theology,
a culturally devolving climate trend?
Inside and outside,
before and after traumatic birth
and death of isolated individuals
swimming in a hegemonic
demonizing atmosphere
of win/lose capitalist self-defeating wounds
at risk of overwhelming all empowering lovely acts
and pre-post-enlightened passionate hearts
For resilient
ecotherapeutic stories
of positive
multiculturally cooperative
green peace
health care wealthy resonance.
Standing at the bow of the rugged ship,
Blistering tears cue up in the wrinkles
Of faces worn weary with anguish;
Uncertainty becoming a bleeding wound.
The raging storm swells with tormenting waves
Splashing on the shores of human dignity and honor;
Leaving the despotism of doubt and fettering fear
Frothing in the humidity of the politico-sands of time.
Yet, despite the toil and fatigue of the hour,
Hope remains on the horizon--rising with the sun;
And the searchlight of truth will dissipate the cloud of deceit
With its enlightening rays emancipating lost, stiff-necked souls
Seeking stillness of peace in the coming raging winds of change.
Why should the sun, like primrose, change its true color?
Why shouldn't each color have its own existence?
Why should the moon shrink holler for seasons smaller?
Why must Bluebells turn white on someone's insistence?
Can cranes compel crows to stand still straight stiff-necked?
Can cobras wish rhinos to crawl and get frogs served?
Can deer desire lions to have their skin soft spot-flecked?
Can creepers caution palm trees to keep their logs curved?
Nature had her reason when she crafted me: ME,
As black-hole or blue-hole has many a meaning;
A hole named ME might be, otherwise, stay empty,
There's none, on earth, like me with the same leaning...
Creepers, climbers, flowers, or flies I cannot be;
What creature on earth could fully resemble ME?
14 September 2021
Why am I me? Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Shreya LN
January 28 Praises to God Bible Meditations Based on Exodus 31-32
Key Verse – Exodus 31:3 And I have filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, and in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship.
PRAISE BE TO GOD WHO FILLS US WITH HIS SPIRIT
Praise be to God for filling us with His Spirit so we can:
Acknowledge His ways according to His precepts
Abide by His wisdom along His purpose
Accomplish His will by His plan
Assert His Word amidst prayer
Achieve in His work through His power
Apply His winning principles
Appreciate His worth so precious
Exodus 31:13 Praise be to the Lord for sanctifying us
while granting us:
Heavenly wisdom
Holy understanding
Helpful knowledge
Healthy workmanship
Exodus 32:11 Praise be to the Saviour Whom we beseech with:
Humility in confessing our sins
as stiff-necked stubborn children
Honour in exalting His name
of greatness and omnipotence
Honesty in devoting ourselves
for His service. Amen!
January 28, 2024
Above my head, foliage, and feathers clatter
as a hawk tangles with a squirrel.
Above my head, Russian tanks pop their tops
in boggling bubbles.
Just above a bald patch, shaggy clouds squat to piddle.
I am heads above those below,
the silver slick worms hardly notice as I thread through
the less grassy and bare.
Mind-hairs are a real thing, mine wave their thin tentacles
like fishing sea anemones, they snack upon
the overheard overhead; ripple gently
in the whisking winds.
A highbrow gets above itself, stutters as it utters.
I wear the headgear of long dead heroes, they ride
my scalp, baseball bats wave there whacks,
ultra-maga veterans of foreign wars
salute my stiff necked, heads-up pose.
There's a world of wonders down under,
but just above my head, that's where dandruff
ponders its flaky notions,
and all high-flown conundrums learn to fly.
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
—William Shakespeare
Cupid Knocks
War waged with red ribbons and lights of white.
The lights pure, expansive, deep and wide;
and ribbons spaced upon a stone wall.
War waged, why you wonder; the holidays thunder.
Across the street since half past October, erected,
dastardly tall; couldn’t, hardly, have been borrowed
from a laboratory scientist or graphic teacher;
unless this could be a Goliath and his found head.
Engaged in warfare - serendipitous armor of the Christian;
the stiff-necked, serpentine, who fires eyes like darts.
(oh isn’t this delicious fodder, as I pass by and bypass all.)
Oh, just send a news crew to investigate; first the cold case.
Who is enjoying this more? Sure, he must look out his pane
and see this superstructure of bones with no skin, a cane -
not candy, but bait; a Christmas bow tie to hold severed neck.
(I jest! This seamless skeleton, this unseemly demon, kept.)
War waged since half past December. The holidays thunder.
I wonder who will fold. It’s a tick past February, and Cupid’s
in a quandary. Such a state, as he aims, but which way.
(Perhaps he can get them to obey the love your neighbor rule.)
Still, will Barry Bones be given a big red heart, a box
of chocolates, stationary to bother the kind old soul
across the way? How small the man, the skeleton, all
told, there is practically no skin in the game. Father Christmas
doesn’t mind his electric bill - it razzes the intemperate, raises
the heat, further hoses down the closet where the spectacle
came from. Perhaps this neighbor ran out of room to store
his aggravations; by moon he must endure a level starry night.
I’m tickled. I can see the sparkles down the street. Still there,
every night, night after night. I wonder what brews in the homes
of despair and enlightenment. I would love to interview the two.
What would I eschew? What fodder to chew? Cupid knocks.
This is going to be fun…