religion – novamartinpoetry.com

When A Human Loves A Cat

He’s not even my son.

He’s not my flesh and blood.

Not my species or countryman.

He can’t utter a word of human language.

And yet I love him with all my heart and soul,
every ounce of my being.

My strange genetics to his ancient, long genetics,
laid there right across the universe,
side by side in this unfathomable miracle of
the same moment in time.

I say it with courage,
I say it ready to crumble in endless
sentient, fecund melancholy…

I love you Bleuets.

Serve the house of the masters
to destroy the masters,
undo their myths.

The little, mighty cat.

Poems

Throw your Stone Age religions
of laws and fear out the window,
the Great Rightening of Civilization
is here.
The dawn of humanity’s childhood
is ending.
The cedars and the oaks
have known,
known for so long.
Or else,
how could they lose limbs and
still live?
How could they mold and rot,
bear both the dead
and the living
and still be,
still continue to live?
The Great Rightening of Civilization
is here.
The trees will lead the planet
hence.

Poems

The Church Of Later Days

There is a mystic
that Jesus does not know.

His followers do not know —
they who make their wine,
they who bake their bread.

For their sacrifices taken from others,
their affluence removes them.

A riddle A Domini.

Poems

Cloudburst Above The Metroplex

God said to a seed,
“let the life go on”.

I am the seed

and so is the drunkard
I’ve seen in the tavern
every eve of my life;

the bank account he dreams of is seed,

people have told him one he will need,

but still he awakes each morning.

Poems

Become Blues Singer

God asked me
one day when Peter was off in the fields
enduring mosquito bites,
“Why don’t you fall in love with men?”
And I answered,
“Because, men are not made in your image.

Women are.”

I taught God a lesson.
Now he brings wedding gifts,
turtledoves,
to the lesbian weddings.
I bring silk and tongue in the failure
of my appearance.
And then I walk off, continue to walk with
a head of brown hair and
brown facial hair
and brown pubic hair.

Now, God has taught me a lesson.
I must become blues singer,

love my guitar.

Poems

I Pray To Trees

I “pray” to trees.

Many people would say that’s silly.

Some would say it’s sacrilege,

heathen,

evil, even.

Now, how and why can I judge

how others pray and hope?

Poems

To My Parents, The Baby Boomers

I know we don’t agree on much.
Y’all think God has a penis.
I don’t think God even has genitals.
And if he did, he would have a vagina.
A big, boundless, life-giving,
life-affirming, endlessly sweet-smelling
vagina.
It would smell like a brand new, pristine
recently constructed corporate conference room
that someone had poured the finest
Tupelo honey all over,
with that scent of blessed sunshine coming in
through the windows at midday.
But,
regardless of our disagreements and y’alls
views on God’s gender and genitals,
y’all did the right thing by voting for
Joe Biden.
Especially considering
that y’all had previously voted for Donald Trump
back in 2016.
I’m glad you were able to see what a
pathetic, corrupt, poser, loser,
petulant, bully, child he is.

Poems

From Oak Grove To Field

Sometimes
I go from the oak grove
into the light.

The moonlight over the field
of tallgrass.

As a prayer.
To be filled.
Felt, fallen, bathed, and cast.
All in one moment.

Only something
non-human
could do that.

I’m not even sure
I can grasp it.
I just do. I try to live.

Literally, the human being.

While there is so much
simultaneously
happening alongside being,
too dimensional for beingness.

Like I said; a prayer.

Some kind of ionization.
Something electromagnetic.

Into minimal light.
Oak tree stark winter neuronal limbs
reaching.
Into a vast, vast ocean:
the calculus of consciousness
Physicists have yet to decipher.
Though my heart drives me to pray,
to give thanks to the eternal moment.

The thing recognizing itself.

Poems

Purity Of Body

The purity of your body
conforms to so many advertised standards
of women.
Well, white women, crystalline,
Anglified, Germanic women.
It makes my dick work…
…in the way that adults need their dick to work,
at least when they’ve got to that age
when their dick sometimes has issues working.
I mean, adult men.
I’m not sure about the dicks of women.
Don’t discount they certainly have one,
in some way,
I just don’t know anything about how
those things might work.
I wish I did.
I wish what I’ve written here
about women having dicks
wasn’t considered blasphemy by four, to five
of the world’s major mainstream religions.
But I believe it is.
This is one way that I’m a believer.
I believe these religions
present frameworks to people
for how they should or shouldn’t think.
And so you can’t believe that women have dicks.

Poems

Shah Jahan

“His Majesty Shihab ud-Din Muhammad Shah Jahan, the King, Warrior of the Faith, may God perpetuate his dominion and sovereignty”.

God doesn’t perpetuate dominion.
There is only one dominion.
The dominion of ALL.

God?
God flips over leaves,
folds them,
crushes them,
turns them to dust to the wind.
To this, they are gone.
They are off,
off to be something else.
Now, are they even themselves anymore?
Or one in the same with the ALL.
As they always have been.
Not their dominion.
Not your dominion.
Just dominion. One dominion.
ALL.
No sins, no lords, no losers, no winners.
ALL.

For tender human,
stuck in dichotomies, insecurities,
and powerlust,
God doesn’t perpetuate dominion.
There is only one dominion.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin