Mind Idols

The great, grand conspiracy with no conspirators

is pregnant now to burst,

and the wicked seeds planted in a million classrooms

are bringing their harvest of hurt.

The Enemy is clever.

Preying on the weakness and vanity of men

he’s arranged history as a line of false lessons,

to bewitch young minds with false delight

and mark hell as the way to heaven.

No more golden calves for him.

False religion now is mental

and has evolved into ideologies,

a fifth column of the mind

that he’s used to destroy the heart.

The humans are blind to his tricks.

Conceited that we are masters of all

we’ve become hurt slaves to hate,

imbibing poisons of the mind

and rejecting Him who waits.

  • human?

    Here is a poem I wrote.

    rVwDZ9A

    I am a child.
    I was raised in a padded cell, “suburbia”.
    I played on ergonomically designed play grounds – don’t call them monkey bars . . .
    I fell on to soft mulch, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the work week, attended too by a frantic mother, desperate to make sure her baby never, ever suffered.
    I was constantly surveilled as some book, somewhere, instructed alienated ‘rents, “No child should ever have unsupervised and unstructured play.”
    I was subjected to “play dates” with other children I didn’t like, doing things I didn’t enjoy (or choose to do . . .)
    I was signed up for sports and given trophies in leagues with no standings and where no one kept score because, “They are all winners” and, “We wouldn’t want to hurt their self-esteem.”
    I was never told, “No.”
    I was read to every single evening at bed time even when my mother or father were tired, or stressed, or desperate, or angry, or depressed (they just kept giving . . .)
    I was a “high achiever,” “gift and talented,” they said.
    I applied to Oberlin, it was my “safe school”.
    I have a trust fund.
    I feel really guilty about my trust fund, and the polar bears, and the plight of the poor and marginalized, and my therapist says I should think about a “gap year” . . . “UHHGGGG, THE STRESS!!!” (to travel Europe).
    I dyed my hair pink and became a “radical,” no, an “ally,” and not a “comrade” (because, you know . . . the trust fund).
    I am deeply practical (like my middle-aged mother).
    I am seriously considering “taking a year off.”
    I am looking for “safe spaces” (as I have been conditioned to do).
    I use “safe words.”
    I am a child.
    I.