Colin F. Jones

~ God and War ~

The priest’s voice stutters with the lie,
As good men do their best and die,
While the politician draws his sumptuous pay,
All from the consequences of the violent fray.
War serves them all; they all succeed,
The corporate purse is the mouth they feed,
While worshipping an absent God,
Who saves not one soldier from the sod.
The brain is such a complex place,
Where thoughts are formed that words do trace,
Upon the page of wrong and right,
The millions of reasons for the fight.
Though most do miss the simple fact,
That what is done one can’t retract.

Seneca wrote nothing of the Christian God,
Nor Pliny who through most things did plod,
For all Christian things from pagan myths,
Were minor events not reformatory gifts
But that which acquires the teachers best,
For its perseverance will be blessed
For those who have the power to scribe,
The laws and rules will always decide;
What patterns of thought will prevail,
Defining the lie as truth in detail.
Thus fearing death might bring us hell,
We keep our silence that we don’t tell,
The world that what we believe is wrong,
That counterfeit words form our song.

The parabolic mystical texts of the book,
Misinterpreted by the readers who look,
At the simplicity of the story they tell,
Lead them to belief at the wishing well.
The Pagan origins of the gospel and Creed,
Maintain a constant and imperative need,
For the refining of morals and the law,
In the changing imprints of the adventurous paw.
For their structures are carved out of good,
Are basic fundamentals that are all understood,
That balance our lives as moral codes should,
Though soaked in so much sacrificial blood.
But Mother nature in this has no mind,
For her credentials have not been defined.

The sun-worshipper from whence came the creed,
With the worship of nature provided the seed,
The sun is the giver of life with the rain,
Nature maintains it and revives it again.
From the dead carcases that rot on the earth,
As all bodies do after expending their worth.
The truth of reality leaves history well stained,
For what has always been true has remained.
The crucifix is a pagan symbol; a cross,
On which witch-doctors their spirits emboss.
The Eagle flew on a roman and Germanic shield,
A symbol of death to all who would yield.
What flag has not been erected from war!
What nation has no poverty and poor?

Is it really better to die than to sin
Leaving the earth conquered by the devil within,
Those who would kill to better their claim,
That dying is detrimental to fame.
For if only the sinner then occupies the earth,
What was the life of the good man worth,
For he died not in defence of his life,
But due to not contributing with arms to the strife.
If all men were to live without sin,
Then all other creatures on earth would win,
But man could not survive on his own alone,
For he must build and fight for a throne.
For with all life he competes to survive,
Thus he’s quite anxious to remain alive.

Then a referee is needed; an umpire,
On some untouchable pedestal or spire,
A symbol of goodness and right and law,
A banner to march ethical soldiers to war;
Where they will kill murder and slaughter,
Causing red blood to flow like water…
For with the trust of their god they will sin,
For it is a good deed done if they win;
Thus the forbidden becomes the requested,
That good notions in sin are invested,
That the humble and placid become,
The warriors who march to the drum;
While helpless the women all cry,
Because their men for the umpire all die.

Men cannot portray women as women are,
They are too complex and too desired by far,
That the bias residing in men’s eyes,
Can’t such wanton deeds of women despise
That lead them into rumpled beds,
As sinning Christians not newlyweds.
For always reality and truth break through,
Displayed in all the ‘good’ things we do:
For even judges are liars and cheats –
Priests and butchers who deal in meats.
For trust is such a personal thing,
Religious folk prejudiced hymns do sing,
For although they do not know the truth,
They claim it so without any proof.

Women pity men with envious plight,
They think he is never or seldom right,
A shallow pathetic man they see,
Though not all women would agree.
Self delusion seeps out to request,
Of woman her pity and her nest,
Both of which she gives him for free,
Though she counts all the apples on her tree.
Her skin is counterfeit her man forced coat,
That hides her intricate intelligent scope,
Beneath a charade of subdued fire,
That with time will eventually transpire,
For while the man has muscle and has wealth,
The woman has wisdom and insidious stealth.

People keep pushing their religious view,
Ignoring what might be a less prejudiced few,
Who respond with a need to say oh well…
I think there is no heaven or a hell.
Tis then that they discover the silence
That is more vibrant than actual violence;
Out in the cold they stand all alone,
Because the religious prejudice they will not condone.
For if they are unprepared to join in the clique,
Then the mud in between will get thick
For to think for yourself is a sin,
You must think as you are taught by him
(Him being the one who is right
Though his brain glows with brainwashed delight).

How do you know what you believe is true
Do you just know or did they teach it to you?
If you say you just know; then you lie;
For you were taught when you die you don’t die.
You are not born believing in God.
There is no image that grows from the sod;
No spirit, no ghost, no tethering vine,
Just mans written word that claims the divine.
Have you ever tried to discover the truth,
Or are you afraid of finding the proof,
That what they fabricated from a pagan past,
By the powers that be were intended to last;
So long as tutors were in place to teach,
To combine and conform our speech.