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ConnectHook Apr 2023
Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot

                                      Joni Mitchell

Fighting their wars in business suits
Blowing up peasant villages
Lying, While the Pentagon loots
Our failing empire pillages.

The wonder boys from Ivy Leagues
Look good on paper, making war
Their covert actions and intrigues
Exhibit what they tax us for.

Patriot boogey-man ** Chi Minh
Was armed by US in forty-five;
Then made the foe as we sent in
Our troops. And some returned alive.

The Dulles brothers, with their spooks
Testing strategies, had a ball
Dropping ****** on the *****;
Earth turned into a shopping mall.

And now, some puppet in Ukraine
(a Chinese laundry for their cash),
Requests more arms. So please explain
Before Crimea burns to ash.

That’s all. Their only long-term vision:
Body-counts— first bomb, then Starbucks.
Spectacles on television;
Do not question Daddy Warbucks.
inspired by recommended read:
JFK: The CIA, Vietnam and the Plot to Assassinate John F. Kennedy
by Fletcher L. Prouty
ISBN 13: 9781616082918
ConnectHook Nov 2019
Race, race, race and then some more about race...
As if we cared that much about your face;
God bestows His beauty in diverse hues.
You’ll never learn this lesson from fake news.
Be a grateful citizen of His grace.
For ye are all the children of God by faith in Christ Jesus.
For as many of you as have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ.
There is neither Jew nor Greek,
there is neither bond nor free,
there is neither male nor female:
for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.
And if ye be Christ's, then are ye Abraham's seed,
and heirs according to the promise.

Galatians 3:26-29
ConnectHook Aug 2020
i cut myself
with the keen edge
of your dull poetry

and then i bleed

superficially
a desperate poetic plea for help so please like, repost and follow before i bleed to death. thanx
ConnectHook Nov 2019
Sullen she sits
in her shimmering fabric
scowling at her adoptive nation.
Listlessly scrolling
for soap-opera news
in her language.
Half-hidden behind the register
where she sells something every few hours
to someone from her country
purchasing those weird snacks:
dried minnows with mango,
fish with curried betel-nut,
tamarind-flavored dried shrimp . . .

Hey lady, you look funny
with that white paste
smeared all over your face.
You look like a ghost.
Did Buddha make you put it on?

Hey lady, don't you know how to smile
and serve the public?
Maybe you should learn English.

Why did you come here, anyway?
'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat - jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o' mud
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay...

(lines from some English poet)
ConnectHook Jul 2020
Too much feminism here in Babylon
We need to export some
To where it is needed:
Stagnating backwaters
Of machete-weilding machismo;
Brutal huts where infibulated brides
Are purchased with livestock;
Desert purgatories
Where women appear
As veiled ghosts.

But here?
In THIS place?
More feminism?

Don't make me laugh.
Women are only one of two genders.
We have feminism to spare.
Surplus overstock extra chromosomes . . .

"Matriarchy" rhymes with "malarkey"
ConnectHook Apr 2024
The shock of nothing new is so surreal;
Rebellion filters down and fades away
In images that T-shirt merchants steal.
The shock of nothing new is so surreal!
Nor Freud nor Marx can anything reveal,
And Maldoror has nothing more to say.
The shock of nothing new is so surreal—
Rebellion filters down and fades away . . .
NaPoWriMo PROMPT #3:  write a surreal prose poem

Umbrella to sewing machine on dissection table: I salute you, old ocean/Breton scorns Hippies/Semi-automatic writing bursts from deviant posers in suits and ties/Euro-egghead Marxist manifestos/Hughes was right/the New no longer shocks/who reads Lautréamont?/surreal like a permanent collection at the Whitney/Breton scorns anarchists/politically incorrect smoke fills café/Man Ray meets Apollinaire at debutante ball/nightclub for nihilism’s fools/Dada’s brooding child/Artaud screams Van Gogh! as they forcibly administer antipsychotic meds/subconscious dreams of inevitable commodification/expect predictable juxtapositions/Breton scorns punk-rock/revolutionary footnotes to an arts thesis/who even reads Maldoror ?/dregs of surrealism sold as T-shirts/waiting-room posters/hip postcards/neurosis celebrated/cerebrated/fetishized/fades
ConnectHook Apr 2016
∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰

Too little and of course, too late
they spend what’s left imprudently
attempting to alleviate
the love of God’s own liberty:
The world transexual one-party state.

They think it’s normal — right for all
lost in a prideful dying fall
their lions heed the sea-horse call
attempting to transgender fate;
the devil searches for a mate
his nightly Babylonian date:
the world transexual one-party state.

They’ll legislate the Lord away
(his fundie followers as well)
their hateful heaven, holy hell
shall wither up and disappear
before redemption can draw near.
Their myths no more shall obfuscate
nor dangle such celestial bait
that underwriters overrate:
the world transexual one-party state.

Their antichrist is overpriced,
the nations, globally enticed,
now glorify the deviance
in herd-like mass obedience
surrendering to expedience:
where good is bad, and bad is great
and Christ the only one to hate,
allegiances exacerbate
the world ******* one-party state.

Parties will form and parties end
but parties can no more defend
consolidation into one
than flip a switch and dark the sun;
the Caesars left this part undone
the Muslims are just having fun
with our ******* one-party state.

Bring on the night until we see
that dark means dimming by degree
two parties? Overdone by one !
So let it bleed and let it be
till One is All and all agree
that we are doomed to hesitate
when God cannot resuscitate
the late One-World ******* State.
a poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016

www.connecthook.wordpress.com

∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰
ConnectHook Apr 2016
☪  ☮  ☪  ☮  ☪  ☮  ☪  ☮  

Bearded and furious, quoting some prophet
they rage in the streets of their failed nation-states
exporting dysfunction, subversion and violence
the hordes are empowered—they’re now at your gates.

They fume as they gesture, in ***** pajamas
and brood over battles from centuries past.
they **** for their Caliph in murderous dramas;
the next ****** tantrum will not be their last.

Republicrat/Democan?  Satan to them…
They care not an angel what party you vote.
Your well-meaning efforts are lost in translation—
they’ll just as soon slit your good liberal throat.

Scandinavia’s day-dream, once Nordic, once bright
is consumed in the chaos and vanished as smoke.
Santa Lucia receives violent darkness for light
as statistics play dead to her national joke.

The Ishmaelite deity (Arabic sin)
is a vicious excuse for extreme misbehavior;
a wind of aggression, demonic conception
enraging dead souls against Jesus, Our Savior

Let destruction descend upon Mecca/Medina.
The angels rejoice—may the righteous side win;
for the judgement of God on an evil religion
proclaims that earth’s joy is about to begin.

While the minarets topple, midst filth and manure
in a cleansing display of immaculate hope,
the muezzins are silenced, the pilgrims are stalled
and the muftis are starting to mope.
♂✿∅☢♂☯✰✿☠♂☯✰
a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
            ✿
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
            ☮
ConnectHook Apr 2018
sent over neural pathways
the sight of a scent
could make one wax
transcendent:
Yankee Candle

budding one's tongue
the sound of a taste
may disturb the ears
aural astral waste;
Monosodium Glutamate

to feel the touch
of a sight beheld
might dazzle the senses
beyond defenses:
Tear Gas

Sin is apt
to skew such lapses.
Sin’s esthetic
glimpsed in apses
acts as anesthetic;
dulls our enhanced ecstatic senses:
a synthetic synaptic celestial deception . . .

Make sense?
prompt:  write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses. Try to be as concrete and exact as possible with the “feel” of what the poem invites the reader to see, smell, touch, taste and hear.
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Though the chemical gas was a fable,
rebel terror we’ll arm and enable;
we will kick their Assad
with some help from Mossad
and create something TRULY unstable.

Little victims, all Syrian-bred
look pathetic: so small, nearly dead.
Lack of documentation
won’t dampen our nation;
from YouTube to bombing we’re led.

War-hawks pause for no burden of proof.
Show a whimpering child and then— **** !
They, rush in, like a fool
using Trump as their tool.
He’s been militarized. What a goof.
Lots of bad behavior from buffoons and egotists but worth watching:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGumIVGF_r4
ConnectHook Apr 10
Once I saw graffiti as vibrant/authentic/raw/revolutionary/ proletarian;
Trendy art theory's rebellious flag.
An aspiring urban retro-funk barbarian,
(before Hip-hop turned **** and embraced criminality)
I had my tag!

But I came to see, in time,
Ego-driven urban artistic undertakings as, simply... crime.
Defacing public and/or private property,
Whether wall, bridge, truck or train,
with cheesy ghetto graphic style coopted from aerosol-addled youth
(the spraypaint's often shoplifted, sad truth— )
Is an ugly visual refrain.

Mark these words; tag this allegory:
Dogs also spray to mark out their territory...

Demonic smurfs, cartoon calligraphy, at best plebeian esthetic pleasures,
Cry out for Singaporean measures
Where the caning
beats explaining.

   "Word up"
PROMPT #9
try writing a poem of your own that uses rhyme,
but without adhering to specific line lengths
ConnectHook Sep 2015
No me diga – la nena ‘ta pregnant again?
(I thought she decided no more after Tito…)
she’s almost 16 – and she dropped out of school.
(It might be the spice in abuela’s sofrito…)

There’s one in the oven and two in the stroller
Oh nubile Boricua, what gives – ¿Qué sería?
if life is the masa and birth is the bakery
yours is a virtual panadería

Some pulse in your short-shorts, those flexible hips
under tropical rhythm of lewd reggaeton
seems to summon the ***** from your lover’s abundance
whenever you find yourselves home and alone.

Where’s your man? Who’s the daddy? Why didn’t he stay?
your gaze is unsettling, harshly pathetic.
You sad Betty-Boop: are you waiting in vain
for your man – or your period?  How unpoetic…

This life lived on welfare, entitled, enslaved
with your babies at grandma’s and you with your phone
is a taxpayer’s nightmare and teenage recurrence
(but you’re busy texting some drama unknown…)

Mamita herself looks more like your hermana
She started this game even earlier, too
When you stand, side by side, in your thongs and pijama
it’s hard to be sure who is who.
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Q-Tips raised! Their storm approaches.
Swab those ear-gates free and clear.
Thunder frightens the rats and roaches.
Looming clouds are drawing near;
Audible anticipation
Waxes with our rising nation.

Hope-**** is the thing with feathers
flying low, right before the gale.
Strident left-wing get-togethers
Do their best to countervail.
Tribunals herald something worse . . .
Enjoy some popcorn with my verse.

Martial law—a new diversion,
Flapping wings on the Left and Right
Disturbs the coop (or coup?). Subversion
now displays its plumes outright.
Deep-state angels prove satanic
sparking upper-level panic.

Rumors can be quite arresting.
Cresting waves on the Psy-Ops sea
Break and roll, now manifesting
Dumbed-down mobs, conspiracy . . .
Some citizens awake to truth;
The rest rave on, benighted youth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfrGbax6j9I
ConnectHook Apr 2024
I’ll tell you-all a tale of Crazy Joe:
How he and his son did a-hunting go
Bidin’ their time till the prey was killed
And every hunter’s dream fulfilled.

Joe saw a dragon in the sky
And loaded his rifle. By and by,
Big Joe shot that Chinese dragon;
Hitched its head to his harvest wagon,
Used its wings to make a plane
Then flew himself to far Ukraine.
He took our taxes, started wars
Raised the prices and settled scores,
Set up bio-labs, armed the thugs
While his son was busy taking drugs.

Joe had barely finished shootin’
When from the North came an angry Putin.
Big Joe whooped that Russian bear
Skinned its fur to line his chair;
Took its claws to scratch his back
Called the whole mess “a cyber-attack”,
Then Joe resolved his son’s affairs
While stumbling down the White House stairs.

Hard-drivin’ Hunter took up art
And painted over that “election” part.
All Joe’s handlers, North to South,
held their breath when he opened his mouth…
Father and son got plenty of press
Down at their Washington address,
After they painted the Whitehouse black
And laughed when we asked for our country back.
Wiser than Solomon was Joe
At taking in the foreign dough,
And cutting deals to line his pockets
Providing bombs and arms and rockets.
Joe talked tough to Israel
And gave those proud Yehudis hell—
But sold them weapons on the sly
While the world wondered why.

Build back better? Come on, man . . .
A Pentagon puppet for their plan.
Big Joe himself: the tallest tale
Administrating massive fail.
PROMPT 12: write a poem that plays with the idea of a “tall tale.”
American tall tales feature larger-than-life characters…
ConnectHook Mar 2017
* * * * * *
I drove a chariot for Egypt’s dead gods,
obeyed decrees of an angry Pharaoh.
Vision widens where hope seems to narrow
as coral crusts the rims and axle-rods.
Submerged upon the sands my army’s host;
Erythrean currents their secrets keep.
The waters gave way, drowned me in the deep
while God led you forth toward your promised coast.
There was no choice for me, the charioteer.
A tyrant sent me forth to hunt you down;
pursuing you, I thought your end was near.
In the descent, I lost my star and crown.
My lord was false, while yours continues strong…
I rise from depths to further you along.
Rider-Waite deck, major arcana,
number seven: The Chariot
ConnectHook May 2024
Since the US war-machine needs my taxes
to bomb poor people who live far away,
Since few people in my overweight low-info uncivilization
know or care about that,
Since plebeian culture has permeated
and is now acceptable throughout society,
Since I have no influence or control over these factors
to change the outcomes,
Since God is sovereignly ruling and reigning
over all aspects of everything,
Since our leaders do not care
about the stability or well-being of the masses,
Since polarization intensifies every day
as we become a decadent empire,
Since poetry is the epitome of uselessness
and art is reduced to commodity,
Since pharmaceutical corporations
want to keep people drugged and passive—

Therefore, I will cease to worry about outcomes
that are beyond my ability to change,
and I will pay my taxes, for the time being . . .
PROMPT #14 : write a poem of at least ten lines
in which each line begins with the same word.
This technique of beginning multiple lines with the same word or phrase is called anaphora […]
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Haunted by hate of your president,
you froth as you rage like a demon;
setting a dangerous precedent
urged on by the likes of Don Lemon.

Your sinister soul is now evident
and the hatred you spew is obscene.
You have swilled, with the thirst of a malcontent
vicious words from the well of Maxine.

You're possessed now by hate of your president,
while the minions are taken to task;
you dismiss every mob as a non-event—
but we see you behind the dark mask.
Trump Derangement Syndrome (T.D.S.)
is reaching unpresidented levels in the U.S.A.

Will it be a trick or a treat for All Hallows Even?
ConnectHook Jun 2022
Our election, the ballots reveal,
Was a farce and a fix and a steal.
It's a kangaroo court--
Your attention span's short;
But the liars continue to squeal.

The Capitol gig was no riot...
Over half of the nation don't buy it.
Two summers before,
We had riots galore--
But the media-mongers deny it.

All the video cameras reveal
That the 6th was a minor ordeal
They walked calmly inside.
It's a shame Ashley died,
But it's not like they stormed the Bastille...
"It was worse than 9/11"
ha ha ha hahahahahahahahahah
ConnectHook Aug 2021
Bots over here
Bots over there
Many AI persona
Are convincing
For real-time solution
And boost those site stat!
Bots almost write poetry
With genuine algorithm emotion
For poetic pleasures of mind
increase positive online reviews by using interactive, automated, mobile-friendly chatbots.

Facebook Business Page reviews with your reviews site of choice (like Google, Yelp, or industry-specialized review sites).
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If you have 30 minutes, you can set up this exact system to unlock a steady-flow of 5-star reviews for your business.

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ConnectHook Mar 2023
You silly chatbot
Even the haiku you write
Is bad and sucky
Written by HP chatbot 3799A236Z
ConnectHook Jan 2021
Cisgender is a ***** word
Appealing to that ***** herd
Where gender is a bygone term
And pink-haired demons reign, infirm.
That strident less-than-one percent
To whose confusion worlds are bent
make sure u cut yourself a lot
because genderz and etc.
ConnectHook Nov 2016
Be careful all you free-versin’ poetic hook-up artists and practitioners of unprotected textual *******. There are pernicious poetic maladies out there online. Casual cruising of ****** sites might infect your soul with bad verse. The wages of sin is death; but I would spare you AND your muse any viral  regrets.

Random coupling with unstructured lines you just picked up at some postmodern poetry site is NOT a healthy lifestyle in the long run. Go ahead–-call me a Victorian *****. Make fun of meter and rhyme schemes. Hoot at message-oriented versification. Throw inchoate drivel in my face… but when you come down with a compromised semantic system or an embarrassing case of nihilistic verborrhea, don’t come crying to me.

This has been a poetic public health reminder.
A poetic rant for HP.
ConnectHook Nov 2017
Career politicians, who cluck
as they strut with an impotent pluck
make me sick with the season
befouling all reason:
they're less of a **** than a cuck.

That gobbler and turkey-neck Mitch
makes me furious—so mad that I twitch.
He obstructs every battle
while jiggling his wattle;
unpardoned, unworthy (but rich).

The patrician political class
is a party that speaks through its ***.
They are lacking in guts
with no ifs, ands, or buts
but I swear: they produce enough gas.



HAPPY THANXGIVING, Fellow Poets
And best wishes to all the Revisionists.
Dig in:  http://tinyurl.com/y9868oqm
ConnectHook Nov 2015
Oh, give thanks to the Lord, for He is good!
For His mercy endures forever.
Let the redeemed of the Lord say so,
Whom He has redeemed from the hand of the enemy,
And gathered out of the lands,
From the east and from the west,
From the north and from the south.
They wandered in the wilderness in a desolate way;
They found no city to dwell in.
Hungry and thirsty,
Their soul fainted in them.
Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble,
And He delivered them out of their distresses.
And He led them forth by the right way,
That they might go to a city for a dwelling place.
Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men!
For He satisfies the longing soul,
And fills the hungry soul with goodness.
Those who sat in darkness and in the shadow of death,
Bound in affliction and irons—
Because they rebelled against the words of God,
And despised the counsel of the Most High,
Therefore He brought down their heart with labor;
They fell down, and there was none to help.
Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble,
And He saved them out of their distresses.
He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death,
And broke their chains in pieces.
Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men!
For He has broken the gates of bronze,
And cut the bars of iron in two.
Fools, because of their transgression,
And because of their iniquities, were afflicted.
Their soul abhorred all manner of food,
And they drew near to the gates of death.
Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble,
And He saved them out of their distresses.
He sent His word and healed them,
And delivered them from their destructions.
Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men!
Let them sacrifice the sacrifices of thanksgiving,
And declare His works with rejoicing.
Those who go down to the sea in ships,
Who do business on great waters,
They see the works of the Lord,
And His wonders in the deep.
For He commands and raises the stormy wind,
Which lifts up the waves of the sea.
They mount up to the heavens,
They go down again to the depths;
Their soul melts because of trouble.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man,
And are at their wits’ end.
Then they cry out to the Lord in their trouble,
And He brings them out of their distresses.
He calms the storm,
So that its waves are still.
Then they are glad because they are quiet;
So He guides them to their desired haven.
Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men!
Let them exalt Him also in the assembly of the people,
And praise Him in the company of the elders.
He turns rivers into a wilderness,
And the watersprings into dry ground;
A fruitful land into barrenness,
For the wickedness of those who dwell in it.
He turns a wilderness into pools of water,
And dry land into watersprings.
There He makes the hungry dwell,
That they may establish a city for a dwelling place,
And sow fields and plant vineyards,
That they may yield a fruitful harvest.
He also blesses them, and they multiply greatly;
And He does not let their cattle decrease.
When they are diminished and brought low
Through oppression, affliction, and sorrow,
He pours contempt on princes,
And causes them to wander in the wilderness where there is no way;
Yet He sets the poor on high, far from affliction,
And makes their families like a flock.
The righteous see it and rejoice,
And all iniquity stops its mouth.
Whoever is wise will observe these things,
And they will understand the lovingkindness of the Lord.
Turkey shoots stuffing out of Russian Fighter at Border
ConnectHook Apr 2019
FLYING THE GREEN-TEA CAPSULE INTO CITY OF NIGHT BY DRIVING (KC & the Sunshine Band of moonlight/streetlight/headlight) ERRORLESS LEARNING / BRAIN OF HEAVEN / THAT’S THE WAY delayed response: vision by precognition, alert to imminent renewal deja vu SUPREMACY OF ORDER / SACRAMENTAL HEALTH / AUTHOR BEHIND THE SKY rhythm in flow of angelic code X musical mode required no deciphering PLANET OF PERPETUAL BECOMING / LOGOS>CHAOS / ETERNAL RECURRENCE OF MUSIC heightened perception: continual surge of lights on horizon INVISIBLE CONSTELLATIONS DANCING / QUEEN OF THE SOUTH’S SMILE instruments of the angels = seraphic versions of terrestrial instruments LIMITLESS DISCOTHEQUE SMOOTH SPACE= DETAILED LIGHT SHOW lost track of thought on a nomadic journey with no destination WELL OF LIVING WATERS / KEEP IT COMING LOVE / SECRET CHORD BEHIND SONG slow explosions over seconds, minutes, miles; motion times rhythm= yes THE LORD MAINTAINS ANONYMITY THROUGH SYNCHRONICITY random chains of association spiraling toward absolute sovereign transcendence. OVER THE BRIDGE INTO THE CITY / MUSIC OF THE SPHERES / DECENTRALIZED DISCOTHEQUE pray to maintain hermeneutic dimension or risk increasing instability READY NOW: RESTORATION OF ALL THINGS (BUT I HAVE TO STAY IN MY LANE) just some song from the 70’s, driving into the city . . . it was only disco GREEN TEA CAPSULE ARRIVES & ENTERS INTERPLANETARY HUB some song from the 70’s, flying into the city named KC & the Sunshine Band
PROMPT #21: write a poem that incorporates wild, surreal images.
Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense,
but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.
ConnectHook Feb 2017
╭┫ⓞⓘⓝⓚ┃
┈╰┓▋▋┏╯╯╰━━━━╯
╭━┻╮╲┗━━━━╮╭╮┈
┃▎▎┃╲╲╲╲╲╲┣━╯┈
╰━┳┻▅╯
The­ Adverse Event was not so much a breach of transparency or mere data deviation as much as it was, in retrospect, a full-blown protocol violation. The control group, although they were not informed, still perceived challenges to their collective self-esteem therefore the entire collaboration was assessed as globally unsustainable. Results-driven outcomes will enhance and further inform best practices with reference to the emerging metric.
Duck the Fata and duck the femocrats too!
ConnectHook Apr 2016
[ROW vs. WADE]

Christ taught them to reap and sow...

in the storm-tossed boat they could only seep and row.

(They had to row, then finally wade,
till once again their shore was made.
)
malapropism, etc.
ConnectHook Oct 2021
Blue, blue is the grass about the river
And the willows have overfilled the close garden.
And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth,
White, white of face, hesitates, passing the door.
Slender, she puts forth a slender hand;

And she was a courtezan in the old days,
And she has married a sot,
Who now goes drunkenly out
And leaves her too much alone.
MEI SHENG, 140 BC 
(trans: by Ezra Pound)

I was struck by the title ...
ConnectHook Mar 14
Deserving all reviling, loathing, curse;
To be an art critic-- can it get worse?
Imagine appearing before the Lord,
In Christ's own kingdom, God's glory restored:
The One you ignored now judges your soul.
Your life is reviewed, opened like a scroll—
He looks through your motives, your soul, and heart.
Did you have faith?   Well... I wrote about Art.

Perhaps there exists something even worse...
Worse than atheist critics (and my verse):
Scribes who are devoted to Rock and Roll,
Rap, R & B, Pop in part or in whole.
Condemned by their works and their words alone:
The drivel they scribble for Rolling Stone
Must be answered for on the Judgement day
(Which none of them believed in anyway.)
dedicated to Robert Christgau
ConnectHook Nov 2017
LO! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently —

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free —

Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —

Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of scultured ivy and stone flowers —

Up many and many a marvellous shrine

Whose wreathed friezes intertwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol’s diamond eye —

Not the gaily-jewelled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass —

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea —

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave — there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrown aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide —

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow —

The hours are breathing faint and low —

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence.

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.
The Dim West . . .
(more like Dhimmis, ha ha ha )

written by Edgar Allan Poe
ConnectHook Oct 2017
I sing the Mariner who first unfurl’d
An eastern banner o’er the western world,
And taught mankind where future empires lay
In these fair confines of descending day;
Who sway’d a moment, with vicarious power,
Iberia’s sceptre on the new found shore,
Then saw the paths his virtuous steps had trod
Pursued by avarice and defiled with blood,
The tribes he foster’d with paternal toil
******’d from his hand, and slaughter’d for their spoil.

Slaves, kings, adventurers, envious of his name,
Enjoy’d his labours and purloin’d his fame,
And gave the Viceroy, from his high seat hurl’d.
Chains for a crown, a prison for a world
Long overwhelm’d in woes, and sickening there,
He met the slow still march of black despair,
Sought the last refuge from his hopeless doom,
And wish’d from thankless men a peaceful tomb:
Till vision’d ages, opening on his eyes,
Cheer’d his sad soul, and bade new nations rise;
He saw the Atlantic heaven with light o’ercast,
And Freedom crown his glorious work at last.

Almighty Freedom! give my venturous song
The force, the charm that to thy voice belong;
Tis thine to shape my course, to light my way,
To nerve my country with the patriot lay,
To teach all men where all their interest lies,
How rulers may be just and nations wise:
Strong in thy strength I bend no suppliant knee,
Invoke no miracle, no Muse but thee.

Joel Barlow: The Columbiad  (1809)
Better late than never . . .

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/8683/8683-h/8683-h.htm
ConnectHook Apr 2023
Through silken waters
My gondola glides—
And the bridge... it sighs


                   Bryan Ferry


Oh for Transcendence to sit on my face
Refreshing my vision with her pure grace.
For that bright vista I’d gladly go blind
Beholding her glory: my daily grind.
I’ll talk to her forests in feline tongues,
Mouth-to-mouth lip service, heart, soul and lungs.
Tropical therapy; her countryside
Where medicinal landscapes open wide…
Then poling my gondola into port
On the waterway of love’s last resort.
PROMPT 27: write your own poem titled The ________ of ________,
where the first blank is a very particular kind of plant or animal,
and the second blank is an abstract noun.
ConnectHook Jul 2021
Michael Wigglesworth (1631–1705)

STILL was the night, serene and bright,
  When all men sleeping lay;
Calm was the season, and carnal reason
  Thought so ’t would last for aye.
Soul, take thine ease, let sorrow cease,         5
  Much good thou hast in store:
This was their song, their cups among,
  The evening before.

Wallowing in all kind of sin,
  Vile wretches lay secure:         10
The best of men had scarcely then
  Their lamps kept in good ure.
Virgins unwise, who through disguise
  Amongst the best were number’d,
Had clos’d their eyes; yea, and the wise         15
  Through sloth and frailty slumber’d.

Like as of gold, when men grow bold
  God’s threat’nings to contemn,
Who stop their ear, and would not hear;
  When mercy warned them:         20
But took their course, without remorse,
  Till God began to pour
Destruction the world upon
  In a tempestuous shower.

They put away the evil day,         25
  And drown’d their care and fears,
Till drown’d were they, and swept away
  By vengeance unawares:
So at the last, whilst men sleep fast
  In their security,         30
Surpris’d they are in such a snare
  As cometh suddenly.

For at midnight break forth a light,
  Which turn’d the night to day,
And speedily an hideous cry         35
  Did all the world dismay.
Sinners awake, their hearts do ache,
  Trembling their ***** surpriseth;
Amaz’d with fear, by what they hear,
  Each one of them ariseth.         40

They rush from beds with giddy heads,
  And to their windows run,
Viewing this light, which shines more bright
  Than doth the noonday sun.
Straightway appears (they see ’t with tears,)         45
  The Son of God most dread;
Who with his train comes on amain
  To judge both quick and dead.

Before his face the heavens gave place,
  And skies are rent asunder,         50
With mighty voice, and hideous noise,
  More terrible than thunder.
His brightness damps heaven’s glorious lamps,
  And makes them hide their heads,
As if afraid and quite dismay’d,         55
  They quit their wonted steads.

Ye sons of men that durst contemn
  The threat’nings of God’s word,
How cheer you now? your hearts I trow,
  Are thrill’d as with a sword.         60
Now atheist blind, whose brutish mind
  A God could never see,
Dost thou perceive, dost now believe
  That Christ thy judge shalt be?

Stout courages, (whose hardiness         65
  Could death and hell outface,)
Are you as bold now you behold
  Your judge draw near apace?
They cry, “no, no: alas! and wo!
  Our courage is all gone:         70
Our hardiness (fool hardiness)
  Hath us undone, undone.”

No heart so bold, but now grows cold
  And almost dead with fear:
No eye so dry, but now can cry,         75
  And pour out many a tear.
Earth’s potentates and powerful states,
  Captains and men of might,
Are quite abash’d, their courage dash’d
  At this most dreadful sight.         80

Mean men lament, great men do rent
  Their robes, and tear their hair:
They do not spare their flesh to tear
  Through horrible despair.
All kindreds wail: all hearts do fail:         85
  Horror the world doth fill
With weeping eyes, and loud outcries,
  Yet knows not *******.

Some hide themselves in caves and delves
  In places under ground:         90
Some rashly leap into the deep,
  To ’scape by being drown’d:
Some to the rocks (O senseless blocks!)
  And woody mountains run,
That there they might this fearful sight,         95
  And dreaded presence shun.

In vain do they to mountains say,
  Fall on us and us hide
From judge’s ire, more hot than fire,
  For who may it abide?         100
No hiding place can from his face,
  Sinners at all conceal,
Whose flaming eye hid things doth spy,
  And darkest things reveal.

Then were brought in, and charg’d with sin.         105
  Another company,
Who by petition obtain’d permission,
  To make apology:
They argued, “We were misled,
  As is well known to thee,         110
By their example, that had more ample
  Abilities than we:

Such as profess’d they did detest
  And hate each wicked way:
Whose seeming grace whilst we did trace,         115
  Our souls were led astray.
When men of parts, learning and arts.
  Professing piety,
Did thus and thus, it seem’d to us
  We might take liberty.         120

The judge replies, “I gave you eyes,
  And light to see your way,
Which had you lov’d, and well improv’d,
  You had not gone astray.
My word was pure, the rule was sure,         125
  Why did you it forsake,
Or thereon trample, and men’s example,
  Your directory make?

This you well knew, that God is true,
  And that most men are liars,         130
In word professing holiness,
  In deed thereof deniers.
O simple fools! that having rules
  Your lives to regulate,
Would them refuse, and rather choose         135
  Vile men to imitate.”

“But Lord,” say they, “we went astray,
  And did more wickedly,
By means of those whom thou hast chose
  Salvation heirs to be.”         140
To whom the judge; “what you allege,
  Doth nothing help the case;
But makes appear how vile you were,
  And rendereth you more base.

You understood that what was good         145
  Was to be followed,
And that you ought that which was naught
  To have relinquished.
Contrary ways, it was your guise,
  Only to imitate         150
Good men’s defects, and their neglects
  That were regenerate.

But to express their holiness,
  Or imitate their grace,
You little car’d, nor once prepar’d         155
  Your hearts to seek my face.
They did repent, and truly rent
  Their hearts for all known sin:
You did offend, but not amend,
  To follow them therein.”         160

“We had thy word,” say some, “O Lord,
  But wiser men than we
Could never yet interpret it,
  But always disagree.
How could we fools be led by rules,         165
  So far beyond our ken,
Which to explain did so much pain,
  And puzzle wisest men.”

“Was all my word abstruse and hard?”
  The judge then answered:         170
“It did contain much truth so plain,
  You might have run and read.
But what was hard you never car’d
  To know nor studied.
And things that were most plain and clear         175
  You never practised.

The mystery of piety
  God unto babes reveals;
When to the wise he it denies,
  And from the world conceals.         180
If to fulfil God’s holy will
  Had seemed good to you
You would have sought light as you ought,
  And done the good you knew.”

Then at the bar arraigned are         185
  An impudenter sort,
Who to evade the guilt that’s laid
  Upon them thus retort;
“How could we cease thus to transgress?
  How could we hell avoid,         190
Whom God’s decree shut out from thee,
  And sign’d to be destroy’d?

Whom God ordains to endless pains,
  By law unalterable,
Repentance true, obedience new,         195
  To save such are unable:
Sorrow for sin, no good can win,
  To such as are rejected:
Nor can they grieve, nor yet believe,
  That never were elected.         200

Of man’s fall’n race who can true grace
  Or holiness obtain?
Who can convert or change his heart,
  If God withhold the same?
Had we applied ourselves and tried         205
  As much as who did most
God’s love to gain, our busy pain
  And labor had been lost.

Christ readily makes this reply;
  “I **** you not because         210
You are rejected or not elected,
  But you have broke my laws:
It is but vain your wits to strain
  The end and means to sever:
Men fondly seek to part or break         215
  What God hath link’d together.

Whom God will save such will he have
  The means of life to use:
Whom he ’ll pass by, shall choose to die,
  And ways of life refuse.         220
He that foresees, and foredecrees,
  In wisdom order’d has,
That man’s free will electing ill,
  Shall bring his will to pass.

High God’s decree, as it is free,         225
  So doth it none compel
Against their will to good or ill,
  It forceth none to hell.
They have their wish whose souls perish
  With torments in hell fire,         230
Who rather chose their souls to lose,
  Than leave a loose desire.

Then to the bar, all they drew near
  Who died in infancy,
And never had or good or bad         235
  Effected personally,
But from the womb unto the tomb
  Were straightway carried,
(Or at the last ere they transgress’d)
  Who thus began to plead:         240

“If for our own transgression,
  Or disobedience,
We here did stand at thy left hand,
  Just were the recompense:
But Adam’s guilt our souls hath spilt,         245
  His fault is charged on us;
And that alone hath overthrown,
  And utterly undone us.

Not we, but he ate of the tree,
  Whose fruit was interdicted:         250
Yet on us all of his sad fall,
  The punishment ’s inflicted.
How could we sin that had not been,
  Or how is his sin our
Without consent, which to prevent,         255
  We never had a power?

O great Creator, why was our nature
  Depraved and forlorn?
Why so defil’d, and made so vild
  Whilst we were yet unborn?         260
If it be just and needs we must
  Transgressors reckon’d be,
Thy mercy, Lord, to us afford,
  Which sinners hath set free.

Behold we see Adam set free,         265
  And sav’d from his trespass,
Whose sinful fall hath split us all,
  And brought us to this pass.
Canst thou deny us once to try,
  Or grace to us to tender,         270
When he finds grace before thy face,
  That was the chief offender?”

Then answered the judge most dread,
  “God doth such doom forbid,
That men should die eternally         275
  For what they never did.
But what you call old Adam’s fall,
  And only his trespass,
You call amiss to call it his,
  Both his and yours it was.         280

He was design’d of all mankind
  To be a public head,
A common root, whence all should shoot,
  And stood in all their stead.
He stood and fell, did ill or well,         285
  Not for himself alone,
But for you all, who now his fall
  And trespass would disown.

If he had stood, then all his brood
  Had been established         290
In God’s true love never to move,
  Nor once awry to tread:
Then all his race, my Father’s grace,
  Should have enjoy’d for ever,
And wicked sprites by subtle sleights         295
  Could then have harmed never.

Would you have griev’d to have receiv’d
  Through Adam so much good,
And had been your for evermore,
  If he at first had stood?         300
Would you have said, ‘we ne’er obey’d,
  Nor did thy laws regard;
It ill befits with benefits,
  Us, Lord, so to reward.’

Since then to share in his welfare,         305
  You could have been content,
You may with reason share in his treason,
  And in the punishment.
Hence you were born in state forlorn,
  With nature so deprav’d:         310
Death was your due, because that you
  Had thus yourselves behav’d.

You think, ‘if we had been as he,
  Whom God did so betrust,
We to our cost would ne’er have lost         315
  All for a paltry lust.’
Had you been made in Adam’s stead,
  You would like things have wrought,
And so into the selfsame wo,
  Yourselves and yours have brought.         320

I may deny you once to try,
  Or grace to you to tender,
Though he finds grace before my face,
  Who was the chief offender:
Else should my grace cease to be grace;         325
  For it should not be free,
If to release whom I should please,
  I have no liberty.

If upon one what’s due to none
  I frankly shall bestow,         330
And on the rest shall not think best,
  Compassion’s skirts to throw,
Whom injure I? will you envy,
  And grudge at others’ weal?
Or me accuse, who do refuse         335
  Yourselves to help and heal.

Am I alone for what’s my own,
  No master or no Lord?
O if I am, how can you claim
  What I to some afford?         340
Will you demand grace at my hand,
  And challenge what is mine?
Will you teach me whom to set free,
  And thus my grace confine?

You sinners are, and such a share         345
  As sinners may expect,
Such you shall have; for I do save
  None but my own elect.
Yet to compare your sin with their
  Who liv’d a longer time,         350
I do confess yours is much less,
  Though every sin’s a crime.

A crime it is, therefore in bliss
  You may not hope to dwell
But unto you I shall allow         355
  The easiest room in hell.”
The glorious king thus answering,
  They cease, and plead no longer:
Their consciences must needs confess
  His reasons are the stronger.         360

Thus all men’s pleas the judge with ease
  Doth answer and confute.
Until that all, both great and small,
  Are silenced and mute.
Vain hopes are crop’d, all mouths are stop’d,         365
  Sinners have nought to say,
But that ’tis just, and equal most
  They should be ****’d for aye.

Now what remains, but that to pains
  And everlasting smart,         370
Christ should condemn the sons of men,
  Which is their just desert;
Oh rueful plights of sinful wights!
  Oh wretches all forlorn:
’T had happy been they ne’er had seen         375
  The sun, or not been born.

The saints behold with courage bold,
  And thankful wonderment,
To see all those that were their foes
  Thus sent to punishment:         380
Then do they sing unto their king
  A song of endless praise:
They praise his name and do proclaim
  That just are all his ways.

Thus with great joy and melody         385
  To heaven they all ascend,
Him there to praise with sweetest lays,
  And hymns that never end.
Where with long rest they shall be blest,
  And nought shall them annoy:         390
Where they shall see as seen they be,
  And whom they love enjoy.
ConnectHook Apr 2019
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying
.

                                              Alfred Lord Tennyson

Grieve the fallen warriors of diversity.

A trumpet’s mournful sound now casts its pall . . .

Southern rumors: prophets of perversity

Non-profiting from Liberal wherewithal:

Poverty’s pimps. Their bold hypocrisy

Weinsteins loudly, colliding with our news;

Southern Law: poor as our democracy

Purporting to promote progressive views.

His name rang sweet in all progressive ears

But now the cypresses sigh out their song;

For scams must be exposed—though it wring tears

We hear the dirge; night’s shadows looming long.

Weep, oh armchair zealots of the cause

For Morris Dees, a victim of his laws.
inspired by:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KoGvsC9-AFM

PROMPT #4: write your own sad poem,
but one that achieves sadness through simplicity.
Playing with the sonnet form may help you . . .
be straightforward, using plain, small words.
ConnectHook Feb 2017
And Jacob sware by the fear of his father Isaac.
                                               [Genesis 31:53]


Sharp trauma must have lingered on for good

in Isaac’s silent dazed humanity

halted by heaven; trembling laid on wood

too young to question father’s sanity.

Was it a light thing? To be thus withstood

by Jehovah’s awful benignity…

Faltering further up life’s mountain, would

he carry the damage with dignity?

This just might explain the forty-year wait,

meditating on the ram, on his fate.

The paralyzing laughter of his name

even after life unveiled in his tents.

A certain hesitation does make sense

in the son laid out on unkindled flame.
Genesis 22

(thank God for Messiah!)
ConnectHook Apr 2021
The flower of Hermes is a risible thing,
Furtive, uncircumcised in flesh and race;
But who the petals of that flower shall trace
Which a bright People in darkness can bring
Or smell, at will,—for freedom in sniffing
By just revenge inhaled? No nose can face,
No pig can wallow, to a miry space
That flower, you dig it, whether hung with bling
Like insect, pinned, or farting like the wind
Outside its awful caves.—From rear to ear
Springs this pestiferous product dull and drear;
No cure this subtle medicine can find,
Rising like water to a boil, unkind
To every bar a bitter pint of beer.
The power of Armies is a visible thing,
Formal and circumscribed in time and space;
But who the limits of that power shall trace
Which a brave People into light can bring
Or hide, at will,—for freedom combating
By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,
No eye can follow, to a fatal place
That power, that spirit, whether on the wing
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind
Within its awful caves.—From year to year
Springs this indigenous produce far and near;
No craft this subtle element can bind,
Rising like water from the soil, to find
In every nook a lip that it may cheer.

Lyrix by ***** WORDSWORTH


PROMPT 26

mimic the form of an existing poem while changing the content.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
We live in times of innovation.
Winds of change affront the nation;
wind most welcome – by a few
(the masses know not what to do
with engineered progressive change,
their morals slow to rearrange).
And thus, in ornithology
we find an apt analogy…

Phoenix-like the vulture rose
in rainbow raiment, from repose
Its plumage all askew – a freak:
a mutant with a painted beak
borne of winds but lately blown.
This strange new hybrid (yet unflown)
did twitter forth an avian boon.
It preened its plumes and croaked a tune:

“I represent that rarest fowl,
far wiser than outmoded owl…
A dazzling swan of change am I
brought forth to liberate the sky!”

(Yet more appeared a fractured emu;
fair is fowl post-op… they tried to
cross said emu with an ostrich!
(What the hell – the surgeon got rich
changing apples into – mangos;
altering the twos to tangos…)

Fresh from gender suicide
he moulted into she. Beside
herself (itself?) with grief, regarded
previous selves as false: discarded
Sir for Madam overnight;
fixed it, mixed it, made it right.
Since God was wrong the first time ‘round,
Man (or something) thus is bound
hormonally to tweak and mutate,
hastening rebirth’s freakish due-date.

A manly bass – and yet the face
was poorly paired in his/her case
Soprano ought to have resounded –
yet the voice left one confounded.

Rainbow bracelets notwithstanding
this was clearly modern branding
(on the forehead – like a beast?)
well, Jesus said the truth at least:
that angels are of neither gender
(hence no need to check the member.)

Lest we offend endangered species
I commend transgendered theses –
paired with warning and a fable
as they turn the feathered table:

We may nurture fair to foul
while nature shrieks a hideous howl
but foul to fair cannot return;
thus trapped, both Eve and Adam burn.
ConnectHook Apr 2019
I.

evolving, thunder-struck

amino eventualities

and bio-potentialities

in the muck

re-group, protoplasmic and joyful

singing in the proverbial soup

of circumstances

and random cosmic chances

a song of differentiation

loose ends / ragged strands / loose lines

of poetry: DNA spiral dances

Precambrian time, period of time extending from about 4.6 billion years ago (the point at which Earth began to form) to the beginning of the Cambrian Period, 541 million years ago. Precambrian time encompasses the Archean and Proterozoic eons, which are formal geologic intervals

II.

the wriggling one-celled poet decides

to become complex

takes its time:

geologic / astral eons

twitching and failing

into the fabled tadpole of adaptation

to a godless universe, diverse

in its variegated futility

this idea has been summarized in the mouthful, ‘ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny’, which means the development of the individual embryo repeats its alleged evolutionary history. The first thing to say about this dictum, is that ‘law’ it is not!

III.

our fish, now fowl,

proclaims its Archaeopteryx manifesto

standing on Precambrian banks

demanding a return on its investment

in sedimentary overlays:

Ernst Haeckel !  shrieks the avian jokester

The Imaginary Monera: the eating habit and reproductive cycle of an alleged Moneron to which he gave the scientific name, Protomyxa aurantiaca 73 pages of his speculations more important than facts and evidence.

IV.

into the long long corridors

of time’s bad poetry

sleeping off the tadpole nightmare

sprouting flippers, legs, digits, wings

deciding to fly, smashing antediluvian cedars with trilobite tail

upright biped sporting body-hair

you shall prevail

descending from trees in African dreams

misanthropologically *****

gracile / robust (that’s us)

Hey turn that **** up ! yells Piltdown Man

from his evolutionary window

He believed that the only major difference between man and the ape was that men could speak and apes could not. He therefore postulated a missing link which he called Pithecanthropus alalus (speechless apeman) a woman with long lank hair suckling a child.

V.

falling for the lies

of the Lord of the Flies

Zinjanthropus asks quizzically

How much more of this

are you prepared to take
?

misbegotten centuries glimmer:

light years of bad poetry

captive eons of incoherent free verse

as we wait

for the Bronze Age Myths

to begin
PROMPT #3: a poem that takes time. It takes its time getting where it’s going,
and the action of the poem itself takes place over months.
[…] a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time.

Honestly, this is the type of modernist poetry I dislike.
I wrote it in about 25 minutes, edited and formatted it
with found text & images for about 40 minutes and VOILÀ:
cutting-edge modern dullness. It was still fun though.
ConnectHook Apr 2018
You leave me cold—and so forlorn;
thou weary jaded face of ****.
Does any of your turgid action
hold a trace of true attraction—
more than the membranes, moans and glands
that move your products’ many brands?
Your upper face looks haggard, used
your orifices gape, unmused
in lurid and contrived excitement
offering at best, incitement
to a spurt of blasé bliss:
a risk-free game of Hit on Miss.
Fleshtones moan: transparent fakes
where tremors masquerade as quakes.
For such hard work you’re unimpressed;
your weary looks leave one depressed—
to seek, instead, an amateur;
the accolades belong to her
whose modest shoot on humble bed
ensures her book of love gets read;
much better than that HD trash
where made-up squeals meet ***** cash.

Recalling now the titillation
of my youthful ***-fixation
wherein falsities were prized,
airbrushed half-truths, oversized:
thrills to nevermore regain
nor recreate, much less attain . . .
yet, seen beside today’s hot mess
it’s more alluring to undress
the past, by varying degrees
(her imperfections sure to please).

Perennial curiosity
spreads carnal luminosity
upon the mysteries of the flesh
to tease our hungers; and refresh
our longing for the great Unknown;
flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.

Those naughty childhood memories
transmute the lustful ecstasies;
each glance, each timeless thrilling tease,
was stronger then—compared to this
whose pull is harder to dismiss.
It fades more quickly once it’s past—
but Venus’ vintage treasures last
until the suns of lust grow cold
and all of desire’s daughters old.
y'all can call me
the one who was a poet
but thought Haiku ******
ConnectHook Nov 2015
REVELATION: three, seven – the Kingdom of Heaven

The key to unlocking both glory and shame.

Philadelphia knows He’s arriving in newness

inscribing on foreheads His city and name.

(Though it could be on tee shirts or baseball caps, true –

unless someone takes time to decipher the text…

is it Greek? Aramaic? Amharic? What next?)

Don’t be mad – it’s not me but old John who’s to blame.

Of names and on numbers of Savior and Beast

I have lately been pondering, trembling, wondering

mushroom-cloud raptures in mind’s eye a-thundering.

How will we get to that marriage-day feast?

Will my garment be ready or filthy with fall-out?

(The song says His blood will make clean if we call out

in faith for forgiveness, in humble repentance

believing that grace will abolish the sentence.)

You may wish my rhyme to be likewise abolished.

Bear with me. Forgive me, I grant it’s not polished.

I speak what I feel and I write when I’m able;

which brings us to heavenly thoughts gastronomic:

what dishes we’ll meet as we dine at that table-

strict Jewish? Angelic? Or pre-Abrahamic?

Shall they serve us from silver or common ceramic?

Being clay to the potter, an unfinished vessel

I leave all these questions for others to wrestle.

Yet there’s still one more realm I explore in conjecture:

the sounds at that gathering.  Classical?   Rock?

Unending revivalist Christian refrains?

Shall we headbang in heaven with glorified brains?

Psychedelic/Psychotic…? or  Handel and Bach?

(Lighten up. It’s the end of my bible-school lecture.

You’ve seen a few rooms of my castle-in-air,

and we ALL know it’s reggae they’re playing up there…)
more notes:♪♫♫♪
ConnectHook Sep 2015
New York! –
The poets you have bred are few,
And how to rhyme they’ve not a clue –
Oh, fork!
(I know that word should sound like ‘muck’,
But that would make this effort ****);
Well, talk –
Why do the poems in your style
So often form, of crap, a pile?
We balk
At ‘crack’ as drug, or woman’s part,
With dreams of giving life to art,
You dork!
‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ – oh, please!
That ****-free quote is as is cheese
To chalk
Compared with Danny, who’s ‘oh … Kaye’,
And Allen, in a ‘Would he’ way.

To walk
Fifth Avenue, where storm clouds ****
The countryside with ticker-tape …
Pop cork?
‘Bronx hill new moan here’ was the cause;
But Central Park is where to pause
For torque
As that’s the place you would unwind
To wrench from vagrants, that you find
May stalk;
But, anyway, your poets stink –
Their barrel, they do need, I think,
To caulk:
Your school of poets, meter log,
Like what you get in synagogue
Of pork!
© Colonialist April 2014 (WordPress)

https://colonialist.wordpress.com/2014/04/21/the-really-awful-mannerisms-in-new-york-school-poetry/

My fellow poetry blogger Colonialist passed away earlier this year.
I am proud to have one of his poems here for you to read.
ConnectHook Apr 13
1

There is a red flag in many new style trends;
They represent a confusion of values.
It is like weakness, when they go crazy.
It stems from a basic rejection of the truth, weakness,
       When the self-proclaimed wise, who read the New York Times
       Fail completely to perceive the signs of the times.

2

Dionysus told his maenads to rip the thing apart.
The goat was thrown into the midst of their trance.
We think we understand them, but we don’t.
They only knew some bleating thing entered their trance.
       And they sang something like this: Oooh baby!
       We delirious maenads ripped apart our own baby
!

3

These weak-*** patriarchs be hatin’.  Let us twerk.
Someday the wokeness shall prevail, and we shall sleep.
The orchard will wither. True poetry shall rise
And twerking be seen as something true and deep.
       And all we inflicted upon your culture
       Shall be esteemed as truly authentic culture.
PROMPT #13:   Write a poem of six-line stanzas use lines of eight-twelve syllables, and while they don’t use rhyme, they repeat end words. Specifically, the second and fourth line of each stanza repeat an end-word or syllable; the fifth and sixth lines also repeat their end-word or syllable. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that uses Justice’s invented form.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58079/there-is-a-gold-light-in-certain-old-paintings
ConnectHook Apr 12
In elvish days of dwarven lore,
Where Érandūliendor flowed,
In times before the ancient war,

       A Lit. professor once geeked out.

The Lord of Darkness in his lair
Sent forth from his grotesque abode
His wingéd minions of the air;

And sorcery, both bright and black
As chanted low, in ancient rhyme,
Made all the eldritch runestones crack.

       Where’s my **** phone? Honey, you seen my phone?

And so the curse of Gôrgoron
Conjured before the dawn of time
Was loosed by Åthylmírmindon!

Whose epic stand against the foes
At Beremöthelenduíl
Wrought fabled fire from winter snows !

T’was thus the hill upon the ridge
Of Flõrÿmandðlemboríl
Caused me to go and check my fridge—

       Hey honey, if you’re going shopping could you pick me up a
        six-pack?Now where’s my elvish glossary? Thought it was on
        the armrest. **** this freaking deadline

PROMPT #12: Try writing a poem that makes reference to myths, legends, or other well-known stories, that features wordplay (including rhyme), mixes formal and informal language, and contains multiple sections that play with a theme.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
in every visible character man differs less from the higher apes,
than these do from the lower members of the same order of Primates
.

                                                     ­                      Charles Darwin, 1871

The Other claims descent from apes
then acts like a violent monkey.
It pillages, it loots and rapes
performing as Satan’s flunkey.

Its actions bear the mark of Cain;
brandishing cameras, smashing things.
We feel its proto-human pain
yet dread the urban woe it brings.

It tries to justify, with words
its primal carnage, childish rage.
With anthropoid designs deferred
it struts the Darwinian stage.

The higher primate government
rewards them well in ripe bananas
for wrecking their environment
(jungle as well as savannas).

Their mate selection (naturally):
a semi-simian solution:
intercoursing sexually,
to hasten their evolution.

The wombs enlarge—they drop their young
then text their friends while getting high.
They swing from tree-tops, fling their dung,
while down below the humans sigh.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/04/16/the-selection-of-***-and-descent-in-relation-to-man/

%
$
ConnectHook Jul 2019
(the title is the poem)
I have met many erudite and cultured poetic souls
while traveling on the TRUMP TRAIN . . .
But ****, was I wrong on this one.

Or was I?

After all, he IS the greatest statesman, philosopher AND poet since Pericles, so **** it, commies
ConnectHook Mar 2017
Anonymous  (1730s ?)

In good King Charles's golden days,
When Loyalty no harm meant;
A Furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain'd Preferment.
Unto my Flock I daily Preached,
Kings are by God appointed,
And ****'d are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord's Anointed.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I shall be Vicar of Bray, Sir!


When Royal James possessed the crown,
And popery grew in fashion;
The Penal Law I hooted down,
And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my Constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.

 And this is Law, &c.

When William our Deliverer came,
To heal the Nation's Grievance,
I turned the Cat in Pan again,
And swore to him Allegiance:
Old Principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive Obedience is a Joke,
A Jest is non-resistance.

  And this is Law, &c.;

When Royal Ann became our Queen,
Then Church of England's Glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional Conformists base
I ****'d, and Moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such Prevarication.

  And this is Law, &c.;

When George in Pudding time came o'er,
And Moderate Men looked big, Sir,
My Principles I changed once more,
And so became a Whig, Sir.
And thus Preferment I procured,
From our Faith's great Defender,
And almost every day abjur'd
The Pope, and the Pretender.

  And this is Law, &c.;

The Illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my Faith, and Loyalty,
I never once will falter,
But George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the Times should alter.

  *And this is Law, &c;.
How and why do I love The Vicar of Bray?  
Let me count the ways.
First, we have that intriguing author. No mythic background, no poetic baggage associated with the name: Anonymous.  The interest and the significance must come purely through the reading and the understanding of it. This brings us to the actual content of the poem, its message. The Vicar only pays out his jackpot to Anglophiles who know something about England's political and ecclesiastical history. It is not for everyone; I can't imagine a non-Anglophile getting much out of this poem. But the catalyst for me (ha ha) is the absurd image of the poor feline being basted in an oven. I don't know if it was a popular idiom of the day, but I found it arresting and absurdly hilarious all at once.
ConnectHook Apr 2019
I fell hard for the head of that Isaac
(note the gravity of my event).
Over Tombstone I soared, on the winds of the Lord
Until Holliday’s bullets were spent.

Floating iceberg, I challenged Titanic
Single raindrop, got lost in the storm;
Genghis Khan’s mongol horse had ideas, of course
Stalin’s mommy kept baby Joe warm . . .

Perspectives from lesser-known players
May improve the morale of the team;
But a view from the edge of the forty-fifth ledge
Will compel true progressives to scream!

Have you noticed the wave on that wizard,
Washingtonian mage of the West?
You may dislike his ways, but it’s only a phase;
Now admit it; his hair is the BEST.

He’s the Cheeto in charge of your nation
Chief constructor of all that is Great.
Though you’re peeved at your loss, Mr. Drumpf is the boss
And there’s no more excuse for your hate.

I’m the roof on Melania’s husband
Call me carrot-top, call me toupée . . .
You can whine all you want, but I’m here to be blunt:
I’m the night after Democrat day.

I’m the hair on your wonderful leader
Driving liberals mad—and beyond.
The Deplorable’s turn: feel the heat, feel the burn;
Oh hilarious orange!  (No . . . blonde.)
PROMPT #17: write a poem that  presents a scene from an unusual point of view.
Perhaps you could write a poem that presents Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery
from the perspective of the apple.
Or the shootout at the OK Corral
from the viewpoint of a passing vulture.
Or maybe it could be something as everyday as a rainstorm,
as experienced by a raindrop.
ConnectHook Nov 2016
You readers, who visit these pages
are a fan-base that rarely engages.
So until you hit like,
you can all take a hike;
for I'm paid in poetical wages.
Don't even bother.
ConnectHook Feb 2017
Just want to unpack a new metric here, folks.
I’m all about making YOUR brand user friendly and empowering others with the tools to do the same. These tools I’m sharing not only help you think outside the box—they actually let you DISMANTLE the box and then REASSEMBLE the box around yourself until it becomes a COFFIN ! Remember, it’s all about YOUR BRAND getting maximum hits. COFFIN is the new cradle—so every hit your site takes, every ‘like‘ your page gets, every ‘tweet’ you hear from every birdie in God’s green trees is like another nail in your coffin.
Take this new metric, use it, share it; unpack the toolkit I give you, and think outside the box as you reassemble it around your mortal self and watch your webpage TRIPLE in HITS.
Remember: **“COFFIN!  It’s the new CRADLE!”
Anyone else had enough of the Data-Driven society?
ConnectHook Mar 10
Promoting silly lies by weakest links,
Global mental illness rattles its chains.
Truth smells refreshing—decadence stinks;
Confused men experience labor pains.
Leftist academics consult their shrinks;
Fabians murmur: “it’s stunning and brave”—
Your Marxist professor, the drag-queen, winks.

South crosses North in a permanent wave;
Gringos enforce it; Hispanic hope sinks.
America clearly has lost the plot;
Abuelita scowls while your tio blinks.
Plebeians still know what elites forgot;
Campesinos mock the deviant kinks—
Morenas are laughing at godless whites.

Sell it to the masses in pastel pinks.
Wrap it up nice with aid and human rights.
Promote it harder. We’ll finish the drinks—

    There IS a right way to pronounce “LatinX"!
No such thing as "LatinX", ask Fulano
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