eureka
j. ramsey
I’m filled with anger- so sick of this society.
It dictates norms and mores- dictates them unto me.
Its plans have just one purpose- telling me what’s normality.
What if I cast it all off? Unburdened by weights, I’m free.
And slow sinks down our culture- asphyxiated eternally,
Suffocated by its own standard- by its stifling density.
Atlantis- myth no longer, survivor to this day.
Swallowed by the sea of truth, our country fades away.
He sees us without our masks. He sees us without our lies. And to many in this world He would appear as The Red Death. How do you see him?
The Interred
j. ramsey
He’s the guest without a mask in this Prospero’s Ball,
The uninvited blood-red stain incurring horror on the faces of all.
They see him- the sick surprise.
He sees you- without the lies.
He sees them- they gawk and stare,
and move in circles to anywhere.
The bastard son of some bastard’s son is the first to seal his fate
And stricken with truths he cannot comprehend is the first served with death on his plate.
First with just one
And then with the others,
Ignoring their wives,
Ignoring their lovers,
The throats of the unclean are opened and cut,
Their necks torn asunder to never be shut.
Their life’s blood runs out and leaks onto the ground
As cries of “It’s Murder!” are heard all around.
But sitting alone and forgotten for now,
I could hear in my ears as the fragments rolled down
Invading words of the whispering wise:
Fire! Fire!
There’s an arsonist here!
Blaze! Blaze!
But what wilting tear
Could you shed to extinguish these lies?
Unspeaking, removed, both my mask and face fell.
I turned to recieve but could hear no death’s bell.
No lingering toll,
No wisp of a cut,
No lack of a soul,
No neck unshut.
For me, a forgiveness
As The Maskless reached up
And lifted his own head
And his own neck he cut.
It’s tattooed on my left arm- Pride Kills. The tattoo, like this poem, address the idea that self-pride is ultimately what keeps us from acknowledging the Lord Jesus as Savior.
The Pallbearers of Hope
j. ramsey
Strangulation,
Execution,
How have I come this far?
In spite of relentless opposition
I’ve set my sights upon His star.
Somehow it shines so brightly,
Yet so few are those who see-
As the few who, long ago, brought gifts and tempest
To that Child, falling to their knees.
Dimly- eyes of pagan glories
Blink and bat,
Grow old and fat.
Wasted- eyes of truth revealers
Roll and stare,
Become less aware.
Numb to the moving of His hand’s progress,
We retreat into shells of ourselves- nameless.
Just us, not Him,
Though walls are thin,
We can’t hear the knocking
Over selfish mocking.
Look now! It’s your pride on the gallows.
And somehow it will hang today.
Against your will, or with it,
You both will die, or it will fade away.
For my first WordPress blog I decided to post a poem I wrote a couple of months ago. I write poetry quite frequently, often using dark imagery to convey a message of hope. I think this is a good way to introduce everyone to my method and style of writing, as well as to the way I do think which could very simply be categorically defined as darkly hopeful. Note I’m not saying “cynically hopeful,” which entails underpinnings of sarcastic thought, like I don’t really believe the words of Lord Jesus. I only mean that I see the world as a very harsh, dark, and wicked place. But I also know there is hope for all who are willing to see it.
This poem was a real bastard when I began writing it two years ago and became extremely frustrated because I couldn’t get past the first half of the first stanza. So it sat untouched until this past winter when all of a sudden I picked it back up and it seemed to write itself. I love the finished product and I hope you enjoy it too. Please feel free to post comments both encouraging and critical. I am always looking for ways to improve this craft and my method of conveyance.
The Saints Stopped Marching
j.ramsey
In the deep, the dark, depressing, filthy mire of my mind
Vapors twisting, writhing, shaping, forming visages unkind,
Shadows haunting, hollow, hating- broken teeth and glinting eyes
Countenances growing, waiting, showing teeth and telling lies.
Whispers trying, falling, rising, staunch the rush of hatred’s tide.
Crashing cymbals sound the influx;
Bellow out your battle cry.
Stay the hand of truth, the Christ child
Matters not unless he dies.
“What is truth,” the cynics ask Him,
As the doubters ask to feel
And I can see the spiteful marching
Of mankind’s proclivities.
“One god in many, one god in man.”
Yet note our throne to vile displacement
This safety serves as our catharsis,
Lest we forget in pantheon
This altar to the unknown Fraud.
“Truth is a garment!” claim the masses, huddled, breaching sandy shores.
And thus the belt, both worn and tattered, is discarded more and more.
Rend the shreds which hold and fasten,
Tear the strips supporting life!
Snip the once-thick strands of truth’s silk
And watch the spider shrink and cry.
Pull the strings from which I dangle
As “Dance, you fool!” the chorus screams.
And with Geppetto’s hope, I’m faithful
That someday flesh replaces me.
Their vile lips form words of hatred:
“Ruin one or ruin all!”
Fly the flag, that lofty bauble,
Signifying battle’s call.
When worlds end and with them wartime,
Peace will be the law throughout.
Off the blindfold! Drop the scales!
Weigh me not against my deeds!
But the providence of benediction offered in a wartime’s need.