Fear Not

Fear not the pounding ocean waves,

the soaking surf, and chilling spray,

Nor hungry fire that leaps; ablaze,

fear not the furnace nor the flames.

Fear not the roars of lions grown,

Run not from teeth and claws alone,

For they can rend but flesh and bone;

But fear the One who writes on stone.

Fear not the eagle from orders old,

whose talons red are dulled with gold,

Hoard not the things that are bought and sold,

Put not your trust in moths and mold.

Fear not the deep encroaching black,

the entropy of hungering lack,

the dark and freezing, aching cold;

they hide the pinions; silver, gold.

What if Hearts Had Windows

This a short poem from a discarded book I salvaged at the twelve penny book sale. The author is unknown, and the poem was never named. To be exact, it appears to be the reason the book was discarded, as it was written on the front cover in pink marker.

What if hearts had windows, what if souls could sleep?
Would all that passed beneath the sea be purified, entombed within the deep?
When Joan lay bruised on prison cot, when Carton surveyed his guillotine,
did they fathom some better lot, did they think that pain would make their hearts pristine?

No, no darkness would enwrap those two, no silence from Sheol,
no shameful peace with worms for sheets, no huddled company of kings-
No. First shall stand the smallest ones, towering robed, honored, crowned;

Let the weakest come forward first; of all our trials theirs were worst,
Let those who hunger, faint, and thirst- their drink by far is a sweeter thing.

A poem of Totalitarianism

This is a poem that I was fortunate to chance upon whilst discussing the meaning of life with a historian who studied the life of the Grand Inquisitor. After much disagreement and debate, he broke into my house last night and left several thousand copies of this poem in various places like the toilet bowl and refrigerator. Needless to say, it has been permanently burned into my memory. I put it here in the highly unlikely case that there are only few copies left in the world, calling it 'a poem of Totalitarianism'. A very dark and morose bit of literature, but I found it intriguing.



Why men are such a funny race, we change like faces in a crowd,
some grow teeth and growl like wolves, others shudder; huddled, cowed.

Come wolves, crack the whips,
come sheep, mold the clay,
We shall build where others foundered,
Bring the mortar, bring the hay.

How can they demand before the Pharaoh?
How can they see the statue and yet stand?
How can they look and not long to worship,
before our God amidst the sand?
Crush the dissenters with crimson boots,
choke their churches in an iron grip,
let nothing stand between us and progress,
let not the vision of our Godhead slip.

Kill the wise men in the palace, put the prophets to the sword,
slash down those who dare decry us, ignore their imploring to the Word,
pile up our tottering tower, heap up Hell that I might die,
but let me perish below my Babel, in desperate hope it will fill the sky.