Scot-Free (Great Scot!)

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Relighting Presbyterian roots,
God’s forest-fire convolutes…

contentious times burn heterodox.

The catholic cuckoos make their round—
strange fire and popery abound;

Deus Ex Machina winds the clocks.

Let all attend the holy skirl,
an armored tartaned highland whirl

escaping from God’s music box:

a blare of sixteenth-century pipes.
unleashes types on antitypes.
Pure Calvinistic grace unlocks

 the portal’s gate—and, opening wide,
the frightened worldlings peer inside
beholding heaven’s equinox.

We chasten the imploding West
for Bloody Mary’s crimes confessed
(upon the Catholic queen a pox)

but praise the captain of the Kirk
for interplanetary work.

(His enterprising doctrine rocks.)

in the MIX

Haiku, like Manga,
destroys the attention span

making people dumb

Pardon My French

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Reformed Limericks for your erudite perusal:

You may cover the stench with a potpourri—
while you gag, as you finger your rosary.
Sacrosanct nourriture…
or decayed pourriture?
(Other patrons might label it Popery.)

Though the tepidly Protestant matron
of a church that is stagnant and state-run
does not care about Luther,
We’ll bother to truth her
with Calvin or Knox as our patron.

Though the Vatican’s bottomless coffers
make some very un-Lutheran offers,
I would rather talk Tetzel
(with beer and a pretzel)
and drink with the rebels and scoffers.

We forget that the birth of the Kirk
was a vicious, un-Catholic work
One recalls Bloody Mary…
and Knox was no faerie.
His doctrine drove Satan berserk.

Many chairmen, deficient in wit
who on flimsy theologies sit
with no justification
hate predestination,
reviling it more than a bit.

Barthelemy (in French: St. Bartholomew)
was unpleasant, as most of the martyrs knew
Roman Catholic correction
or violent deception?
In heaven, they’re getting the overview…

People gag, and then murmur the rosary
seeking solace in incense or potpourri
you must pardon my French
but this damnable stench
smells like nothing so much as like Popery.

 

    ♗♗♗♗♗♗♗

Rastafari live !
JAH bless all the Haiku, dem.
Haile Selassie

Broadway’s Strait Gate

KingKong1933

Shuffle along, show your ticket, be strong
while investing in spectacle
staid and respectable.
Nu Yawhk can never be wrong.

Shuffle along, bang a simian gong.
Life resembles a Broadway show;
plebes and patricians owe
apples to Empire’s King Kong.

Death joins the throng. In bananas your song
is re-peeled and re-stated
while apes are berated;
the zoo-keeper’s waving. So long.

How do I love thee?
Let me count the syllables
In my bad Haiku

Lawyerspeak

Babylonian
And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales:
and he received sight forthwith . . .        [Acts 9:18]

When judges decipher what lawyers speak,
offended defendants may leave confused.
Legalese labyrinths capture the weak;
Babylon’s law makes for justice refused.
Enshrined at the ziggurat’s doubtful peak
tyrannic gibberish mocks the accused.
He blinks at the courtroom, bewildered freak
as sentences are uttered unrecused.
Cuneiform marks; codified patter—
who dares define such esoteric terms;
in Heaven’s eyes does it even matter ?
While the sacrificial defendant squirms,
Justice, unblinded, lifts higher the sword 
unscaled eyes beholding—her gaze restored.

Study chimpanzees
if you want to find out more
about humankind.