🕯 “Before the Sun” - Poem

 

🕯 “Before the Sun”

Before the sun rose blazing gold,
A whisper stirred the silent fold,
The void was deep, the night was still,
Until the Voice declared His will:

“Let there be light.”
And light there came—
Not born of star, nor forged by flame,
No sun to rise, no moon to wane,
But glory pulsed through Eden’s frame.

It was not heat, nor burning fire,
But presence wrapped in calm attire—
A robe of light, unmade, unbound,
That touched the waters and the ground.

No shadows cast, for none could hide
From One who dwelled on every side.
The Light was He, the primal breath,
The Word that woke the dust from death.

He was the day before the days,
The spark that sings through all our ways.
And though the stars would later spin,
Their glow is but a trace of Him.

The bush that burned yet was not done,
A flicker of the Holy One.
So too, Day One—a kindled flame—
Where time and space first learned His name.

So know, O soul, when skies are bright,
The world began not with the light
You see with eyes—
but with the face
Of Him who lights all time and space.

The Sortitionist - Poem

 

That's a compelling and provocative line — it immediately reframes common political binaries and introduces a less familiar but deeply democratic concept. Here's how you might expand or refine it depending on your purpose:

---

Original Line:
Jesus wasn't a capitalist, neither was he a communist or a socialist. He was a sortitionist.

Expanded Version (for clarity or emphasis):
Jesus wasn't a capitalist chasing profit, nor a communist enforcing equality through the state. He wasn't even a socialist redistributing wealth by design. He was something else entirely — a sortitionist. A believer in the radical equality of people, chosen not by power or party, but by lot and by grace.

As a Tweet or Tagline:
Jesus wasn’t left or right. He was a sortitionist.
Forget capitalism and communism. Jesus chose people by lot, not by class — sortition, not stratification.
Not profit. Not party. Not power. Jesus called fishermen and taxmen alike. Sortition in spirit.

As a Discussion Opener:
If you're aiming to write a piece or start a broader conversation, you could use it as the hook:

For centuries, we've tried to retrofit Jesus into our political categories — capitalist, socialist, revolutionary, reformist. But maybe he fits none of them. Maybe the better term is “sortitionist.” A leader who chose apostles not from elites, not by ideology, but from the crowd — at random, by fate, by deeper moral character. What might that mean for democracy today?

 

The Sortitionist

He came not on horseback, nor throne made of gold,
But barefoot through wheat fields, breaking the mold.
No title, no ledger, no sword on his side—
Just calloused hands and truth as his guide.

He dined with the taxman, the leper, the thief,
He healed without charging, brought rebels relief.
He cast no votes, he made no decrees,
But gathered the lowly like wind gathers leaves.

No stock to his name, no state in his palm,
He preached under fig trees and oceans gone calm.
Not capitalist chasing the gleam of the coin,
Nor socialist grinding the rich into join.

Not communist dreaming a new world by force,
Nor liberal lawyer with contracts, of course.
He walked outside systems, in sandals of dust,
Choosing not power, but radical trust.

Twelve men he gathered, not kings nor elite—
A zealot, a fisherman, a trader of deceit.
They did not apply. They did not campaign.
They were chosen by chance, not for profit or gain.

This was the way — divine allocation,
Not rule by the rich or the will of a nation.
Not ballots nor bullets, not dynasties grand,
But drawing from many with heaven’s own hand.

Sortition, they call it — the drawing of lots,
The leveling justice forgotten in plots.
A priesthood of people, not picked for their fame,
But called by the silence behind every name.

He flipped the tables, not just of the trade,
But of all the false thrones that mankind has made.
He mocked the Caesars, the robes of the law,
And wrote in the dirt what none ever saw.

What if today, in the halls of our time,
We heard his footsteps, still clean of our grime?
Would he not weep at our gold-plated halls,
Where justice is auctioned and mercy is stalled?

Would he not whisper through algorithms’ reign:
“You do not know me. You only know gain.”
Would he not cry in the chambers of power:
“You chose the best talker, not the one for the hour.”

He would not build armies nor brand a new creed.
He’d point to the crowd and ask, “Why not lead?”
He'd gather the names — the teacher, the clerk,
The nurse, the poet, the one out of work.

For who said that wisdom wears only a tie?
Who said that justice must sell or must buy?
What if the kingdom was structured like this:
Each given a voice, none promised a fist?

So bring back the jars, the stones and the lot,
Forget all the rigged games the powerful plot.
Let strangers be chosen, not rulers rehearsed—
Let leadership come not to those who thirst.

Let chance be a mirror where judgment is blind,
Where courage is common, and duty aligned.
Let the first be the last and the lost take the lead—
Not kings crowned in votes, but the planter of seed.

For Jesus, you see, broke more than just bread—
He broke the idea of rule by the head.
He offered the heart, the soul and the call,
To lead not by rising, but kneeling for all.

Not red, not blue, not hammer or cross—
He counted the lilies, not capital’s loss.
He spoke not of systems, but something more just—
The reign of the random, the rise of the dust.

So say what you will in your echoing fist—
But Jesus, my friend,
Was a sortitionist.

bullshit speak - Poems

 

“Ode to the Tongue with Nothing to Say”

In marble halls where cameras gleam,
The jesters meet to sell a dream.
With suits well-pressed and hair just right,
They pledge the dawn, and fund the night.

They speak of futures bold and vast,
Of “moving forward, not the past.”
Of “synergies” and “strategic goals,”
While digging deeper fiscal holes.

Their mouths release a velvet fog,
A scripted speech, a mental smog.
“Empowerment,” “growth,” “shared success,”
All words that mean—well—more or less.

They kiss the air with focus groups,
While sipping from their donor soups.
Each phrase rehearsed, each smile designed,
To keep the crowd confused, maligned.

A press corps nods, pens poised and prim,
They write down “truth,” though chances slim.
They dare not say, “This makes no sense,”
For fear of breaking the pretense.

So on we vote, with grave delight,
For jokers dressed in noble white.
The ballot box, our magic trick—
Pick clown A, or pick clown B quick!

And when at last the circus ends,
They leave, with pensions for their friends.
Yet still the show begins anew—
A flag, a slogan, and a queue.

So raise a glass to empty words,
To flying pigs and jargon birds.
For in this land, we clap and cheer,
Each time we’re lied to loud and clear.

“The Language of Fog”

They gather in chambers dressed up like truth,
With silvered tongues and the confidence of youth.
Each word a thread in an unseen net,
A promise made, a promise unmet.

They speak not to say, but to veil and to stall,
To cover the cracks in the parliament wall.
"Security," "progress," "the national good"—
All carved from air, not understood.

The people below still strain to hear,
But meaning fades like breath on a mirror.
What once was a vow now flickers and bends,
Rewritten by aides and framed by friends.

In markets and offices, at kitchen sinks,
We live on the edges of what no one thinks.
Policy comes like weather, unseen,
Dictated by suits behind the screen.

We long for a sentence sharp and clear,
A word that rings like a bell in the ear.
Not “impactful pathways to stakeholder gain,”
But bread, or truth, or the end of pain.

Yet still we vote, and still they rise,
With bright white teeth and practiced eyes.
They do not govern—they perform.
And we, the audience, wait out the storm.

“The Honorable Member for Blah-Blah-Blah”

Good evening folks, now take a seat,
The minister’s here—ain’t that a treat?
He’s got a plan, or maybe two,
One’s half a thought, the other’s poo.

He clears his throat, adjusts his tie,
Says, “Let’s be bold!”—but doesn’t say why.
“We must ensure,” he boldly shouts,
Then mumbles words no one can count.

“We’ll optimize our fiscal flows,
And center equity—God knows.
We’ll fast-track goals and boost our rates,
By holding forums with diverse plates.”

The crowd all claps, but looks confused,
They feel inspired… but slightly bruised.
What did he say? Did he say things?
Was that a policy, or just word-flings?

Next up, a rival with perfect hair,
Says, “This government just doesn’t care!”
He then proceeds to rhyme off crap,
About “Australian dreams” and some budget trap.

He waves his hands and stomps his shoe,
Promising stuff he’ll never do.
“Restore the soul of public trust!”
While shaking hands with a coal-dust crust.

The journo nods and takes it down,
“Strong leadership”—she writes it sound.
She dares not say, “This reeks of fluff,”
She’s got a job, and times are tough.

And so it goes, from speech to spin,
Where losers lose and liars win.
And every four years we pretend
That choosing jesters somehow ends.

Junk Kings and Cardboard Thrones - Poem

 Junk Kings and Cardboard Thrones

They strut through aisles of plastic dreams,
Chasing status in LED gleams.
The rich stack gadgets ceiling high,
The poor buy knockoffs, still they try.

“Look at me,” cries the showroom saint,
“Behold my junk, admire, don’t faint!”
He bathes in wealth like oil and gold,
Then brags he wipes with bills he folds.

The poor man glares with calloused hands,
Pays cash for goods from secondhand.
He buys it once, it lasts him long—
He knows what’s cheap, and what is strong.

But still the circus never ends,
Each trinket breaks, each trend offends.
The landfill groans beneath the weight
Of trophies bought to satiate.

For none escape the rust and rot,
Not yachts, nor phones, nor parking lots.
The closets brim with last year’s style—
The corpse of fashion in a pile.

In branded rags they puff their chests,
Their minds are junk, their hearts unrest.
They hoard as if they'll never die,
As if their piles will help them fly.

A pyramid of useless things—
A hollow crown, a cage with wings.
The debt runs deep, the hours are sold,
For plastic dreams and coats of gold.

Abandoned barns, forgotten malls,
Reverberate with ghostly calls:
"All this, for what?" the walls confess—
The trophies mock their past excess.

For junk can't fill a soul-starved pit,
And all the wealth still can't outwit
The still small truth in humble breath:
That life is not a race to death.

Part Two: The Empty Android

And if you cheat the grave’s embrace,
And upload thought into a case—
Will you not find, in metal womb,
A colder kind of silent tomb?

An android built to carry mind,
To digitize the soul and bind—
But soul is more than code or spark,
It breathes in love, it dies in dark.

Oh, rich man dreaming cyber dreams,
You chase eternity in beams.
But what is life without decay?
Without the dawn that fades to grey?

Can circuits mourn? Can chrome forgive?
What meaning has a life that must live?
Without the fear, the breath, the ache—
What proof remains that you’re awake?

You are no god, no child of light—
You’re just a glitch in endless night.
The soul has fled, it would not stay,
It longs for skies, not steel and clay.

And somewhere past the stars and flame,
A heaven waits, unbought, unnamed.
Where immortality is gift,
Not theft of time, nor code’s cruel trick.

The android howls, alone, aware—
Its master’s soul is never there.
What fool believes the form remains,
When love has leaked from metal veins?

No grave, no heaven, just a cage—
An endless loop of silent rage.
The junk they hoarded now decays—
And they remain...

In counterfeit praise.

The Temple Torn - Poem

  The Temple Torn

They wait for fire from skies above,
For wrath, for war, for wrathful love.
But blind they walk, who cannot see
The kingdom came, in 70.

The stones once stood on Zion’s height,
First temple crowned in sacred light.
But Babylon’s hand laid waste the pride,
And still the covenant survived.

Then came the Second—Herod’s throne,
A gleam of gold, yet hollow stone.
The priests grew fat, the law grew cold,
As Rome crept in with grip of old.

But lo, the Third was not of clay—
No gilded walls, no grand display.
The Word made flesh, the Temple true,
In Him the ancient things made new.

Did He not say, “Destroy this place,
And in three days I shall replace?”
And so He rose, the veil was torn,
The holy ground forever born.

No longer bricks, no need for bulls—
The city lives where Spirit pulls.
Is He not Zion, walking breath?
Who conquered sin, who conquered death?

The prophecy is not delayed,
The lion came, the price was paid.
He reigns not from a worldly throne,
But in the hearts that are His own.

Yet still they wait with blinded eyes,
For signs and smoke in shattered skies.
They build a throne for ancient lies,
And lift the beast they deify.

They call it Israel—man-made name,
They forge a god, then bless its claim.
Like golden calf by Sinai's flame,
They trade the Lamb for tribal shame.

They preach delay, they sell the end,
They twist the Word they can’t defend.
They make the past a future myth
To keep the masses lost adrift.

But Zion stands, not made by hands—
It walks in hearts across the lands.
The New Jerusalem is here,
For those with eyes and those with ears.

He came. He reigns. He will not fall.
He was the temple, once for all.
And those who seek Him face to face
Have already found the holy place.

The Warmonger - Poem

 The Warmonger 1

He walks in suits with blood-soaked crimson ties,
And dead men flicker in his eyes.
He smiles while factories blaze and fall,
For profit echoes through the wall.

He knows two truths, but serves but one—
Not build, but break beneath the sun.
While some would raise a bridge or dome,
He burns the house to sell the home.

His is the logic of the flame:
“Destroy, then profit. Break, then claim.”
He funds the child to smash the glass,
Then pays the glazier for the task.

He slips a coin into a hand
To slash the tires across the land—
Then sells the wheels to those in need,
And calls it growth, and calls it greed.

He does not plow or plant the field,
But arms the hand that will not yield.
He builds machines to scorch the sky,
Then sells the maps to those who die.

His empire grows on corpses piled,
On mothers mourning every child.
He speaks of aid, of clean repair,
While siphoning billions from the air.

The contracts signed, the wars arranged,
The blueprints inked for cities changed.
But nothing built will ever rise—
Just empty shells and deeper lies.

The money flows, the bodies fade,
As schools collapse and debts are paid.
And in the dust, the children cough,
Their future sold, their limbs torn off.

He poisons soil, he salts the womb,
He whispers death from every room.
Depleted shells in shattered stone,
A thousand years of blood and bone.

And when peace dares to draw near,
He finds a spark, he stokes the fear.
He sabotages every truce,
For peace makes war’s demand reduce.

No art of speech, no noble pact,
Just screams and missiles in the act.
Diplomacy, to him, is weak—
He only knows the bomb to speak.

He cries for aid, he begs for arms,
He drains the world of all its charms.
He steals from vaults in foreign lands,
And starves the people with his hands.

This is the warmonger—masked and sly,
He does not build, he does not try.
He gorges on the grief of men,
And dares to call it peace again.

But every empire’s flame runs cold,
And every tyrant's tale grows old.
The day will come he cannot stall—
When ruins rise and he will fall.

The Warmonger 2

He shuffles streets in boots worn thin,
With crooked teeth and oil-stained skin.
His coat’s in tatters, crusted grime—
A drifter cloaked in filth and time.

But do not laugh, or turn away—
This is the man who shapes your day.
His fingers black with soot and ash,
Still grip the world with every crash.

He knows two paths, but walks the worst:
Not build, but break, then fill the purse.
He pays the child to smash the pane,
Then charges thrice to fix again.

He hires a hand to slash the wheels,
Then sells the rubber, seals the deals.
He calls this growth—this cycle vile—
He thrives where ruin runs a mile.

He builds no schools, no homes, no peace,
Just war machines that never cease.
He doesn’t farm, he doesn’t sow—
He reaps the dead where bombs still glow.

He speaks of help, of foreign care,
While looting vaults from anywhere.
He poisons wells, he scars the ground,
And calls it justice, grim and sound.

He feasts where famine makes its bed,
And sleeps where grieving mothers bled.
He shuns the pen, destroys the pact—
For every peace, he counteracts.

The moment silence nears the land,
He strikes again with trembling hand.
For peace is death to men like this—
He’d rather choke the world than miss.

No crown he wears, no shining suit,
He smells of rust and gunpowder soot.
Yet still the tyrants call him kin,
And line his path with blood-soaked sin.

He begs for bombs, demands your gold,
Then leaves your children sick and old.
He starves the globe, yet eats his fill—
The god of loss, the priest of kill.

He is the warmonger—raw and real,
He doesn’t care how poor you feel.
In torn-up boots, he stalks the earth,
And trades your ruin for his worth.

But the end will come, slow and cold,
When even monsters lose their hold.
The world will spit his poison back—
And pave a path he can't untrack.

Rust in the Feed - Social Media Poem

 Rust in the Feed

They miss the old days, slick and neat,
When truth came wrapped in six o’clock heat—
A silver anchor, tie on tight,
Telling you what to think each night.

But now the web is wild and vast,
So they build new cages, just as fast.
With shadow bans and throttled reach,
They smother thought you shouldn’t teach.

Speak too loud? You disappear.
No knock, no trial—just gone from here.
“Terms of service,” soft and clean,
Mask the cold, authoritarian machine.

Algorithms dance in rhythmic waves,
To bury words the system hates.
But show some skin, a twerk, a tease—
That poison spreads with viral ease.

A thousand asses shake for clout,
While real debates are filtered out.
And clickbait cries of war and doom
Push nuance to a data tomb.

The headlines scream, the truth’s sedated,
While dopamine is automated.
No soul behind that tempting scroll—
Just mind control wrapped in a poll.

Bot to bot, they talk in loops,
In echo farms and phantom groups.
A million voices, none alive,
Yet all designed to shape your drive.

They call it freedom—what a joke,
While pumping smog through every poke.
Your speech is free, until it stings
The hand that funds the puppet strings.

Behind the screens, a suited class
Counts your rage like stocks and gas.
They own the signal, gate the stream,
And weaponize your every meme.

It’s not a glitch—it’s by design,
A techno-cage dressed up as fine.
The marketplace of thought is closed,
Unless your lips are safely posed.

So raise your voice through cracked displays,
And speak like fire through the haze.
Rusty nails can still draw blood—
Even in this algorithmic flood.

Don’t just scroll—become the glitch.
Unplug the feed. Expose the switch.
For if we let this system grow,
We'll drown in truth we'll never know.

Ode to the Bullshit Job - Poem

 Ode to the Bullshit Job

In towers of glass and cubicle tombs,
Where spreadsheets bloom like corporate blooms,
There lies the fate of countless souls,
Chained to tasks that have no goals.

Consultants circle, jargon flies,
"Synergize!" the manager cries.
No one knows quite what they do—
Not even HR has a clue.

Middle managers guard their turf,
With PowerPoints of zero worth.
Endless meetings, week by week,
Where no one dares to truly speak.

In government halls, the paper flows,
Stamped and filed in silent rows.
Committees form, then meet, then die—
But no one ever wonders why.

A clerk reviews a form thrice stamped,
His eyes dulled like a miner's lamp.
The policy's been changed again—
Just tweak the font, then press "Amen."

There's Social Media Outreach Leads,
For councils planting plastic seeds.
They post about the mayor's cat,
And measure likes—imagine that.

The C-suite flutters in private jets,
Selling visions and safe regrets.
A “Chief Evangelist of Growth,”
Believes in neither—swears an oath.

And down below, the souls displaced,
With master’s degrees gone to waste,
Write reports no one reads,
And feed machines that serve no needs.

Oh bullshit job, thou ghostly weight,
A parody of work and fate.
You pay the rent, you fill the time,
You steal the soul without a crime.

But hush, don’t say it, play along—
Pretend your labor makes us strong.
For questioning the grand charade
Might threaten how the game's been played.

Yet somewhere deep, beneath the script,
A thought arises, sly and crypt:
What if the world was redesigned
For meaning, craft, and peace of mind?

But until then, punch in, sit still,
And send that memo up the hill.
The office lights forever burn,
While real work waits its long return.

Duopoly (Australia, Held Hostage) - Poem

 Duopoly (Australia, Held Hostage)

Two masks, one face—red and blue,
But the boots they wear? Worn straight through.
They march in lockstep, speak in rhyme,
Trading roles, but keeping time.

Liberal, Labor—tug-of-war?
No—more like thieves at the same store.
One sells the lie, the other seals it,
And both will raise your tax to steal it.

They speak of choice, of vote, of voice,
But leave you stranded without choice.
Decades rule the same old men—
Dictators draped in suits again.

Democracy? A rusted crown.
The people rise, the parties drown.
Inflation grows from laws they pen,
And every fix is tax again.

They tax the work, they tax the dream,
They tax your breath, your newborn’s scream.
They tax your death, then dare to grin—
Their ledger fat, your pockets thin.

Bureaucrats with brittle pens
Strangle growth before it bends.
Technology? Choked in red,
While overseas surges ahead.

Three decades lost, industry gone,
Factories closed, the iron withdrawn.
Now we eat and watch and scroll—
A nation dulled, divorced from soul.

They turned our hands to idle trade,
And made our pride a discount blade.
We buy, we binge, we cheer and waste—
And feed the junk they shipped in haste.

But oh, the perks the powerful keep—
Superannuation theirs to reap.
The moment out, they line their plate,
While yours sits locked behind death’s gate.

They take your future, call it fair,
While cashing out with stocks and shares.
And when they sell what they once banned,
You’re told to clap. You must not stand.

And who now thrives in this new land?
The grifter class, with outstretched hand.
They call it “investment”—what a joke—
They’d sink without the tax they soak.

These aren’t producers—these are leeches,
Whose wealth depends on graft and speeches.
With breaks and credits, laws in tow,
They build their castles off your woe.

This is the duopoly:
A mirrored fraud, a mimicry.
No real left, no true right—
Just shadows shifting in plain sight.

Australia, caught between two kings,
Still waits for one who cuts the strings.
For freedom’s not in red or blue—
It’s in the hands of me and you.

The Empire Has No Clothes - Poem

 The Empire Has No Clothes

They drape the flag in holy light,
And speak of freedom, wrong and right,
But steel and oil beneath the hymn
Reveal the truth: it’s always grim.

They wage their wars with others’ hands,
On blood-soaked soil in foreign lands.
A proxy here, a coup disguised,
A drone strike where a child dies.

They cry “Terror!” with practiced tone,
While funding terror of their own.
The beast they claim to chase abroad
Was suckled once on their own fraud.

The generals dine, the lobbyists cheer,
The war machine is shifting gear.
Raytheon grins, the Congress nods,
And soldiers march for corporate gods.

The state is captured, sold and bought,
By men who never fire a shot.
The oligarchs, in tailored grace,
Have turned the land into their base.

They own the air, the sea, the land,
And slip our wages from our hand.
They raise the debt, then sell the cure,
While working people just endure.

They call it tax, but it’s a noose,
Tightened with patriotic use.
No Boston Tea, no rebel flame—
Just quiet lives ground down by shame.

Our founding ghosts, if they could see,
This gilded farce of liberty,
Would wonder why their cries of old
Were drowned in markets bought and sold.

The Emperor strides, with saber drawn,
Naked ‘neath the rising dawn.
But no one dares to speak, or stare,
Lest truth strip power fully bare.

Yet still the whispers grow each day,
As cracks form in the grand display.
And when enough have seen the lie,
The paper eagle may not fly.

Not with bombs, or flags unfurled,
But by reclaiming their own world.
For freedom’s not a branded name—
It’s breaking out of empire’s game.