Saturday, April 5, 2014

The Unholy Trinity

A Mourning Meditation

When next you must excrete, please take the time
To gaze upon the contents of the bowl.
You will see there the Naked Face of Crime ––
The Devil’s version of The Trinity ––
A monstrous, odious, tri-partite Whole
Whose stench persists into Infinity.
For Evil stalked and plagued us in The Garden
Tempting us to sacrifice our Soul
For the pleasure of the Nether Region’s Warden.
You will, of course, be eager quick to flush
Away the proof that Hell, indeed, exists,
And yet, like an inebriated lush
A self-destructive passion persists:
The false belief Utopia exists.

~ FreeThinke (4/5/14)


  1. Not only does Obama believe in utopias, he believes they owe their existence due to the suffering of his personal ancestors.

  2. Perhaps the Trinity deserve new names...

    I deem thee, "Waste, Fraud, and Abuse"!

  3. A new edition featuring Bill, Hillary and Chelsea will doubtless be forthcoming soon. };-)>

    The faces may change, but the stench of ROT, CONCEIT, CUPIDITY and CORRUPTION remains constant.

    Pardon me. I can no longer resist the urge to hurl.

  4. Another sonnet! How do you get these written, FT?

    The Devil’s version of The Trinity

    No doubt!

    Yet, like the devil, they have cult worshipers.

  5. This comment has been removed by the author.

  6. I like waste, fraud, and abuse. Covers many administrations and many a congress.

    Aptly stated -FJ.

  7. That's funny, Ducky.

    Great picture!


  8. Duck is an excellent photographer. I visit his photos site at least twice a week.

    Lord knows that Duck and I have our disagreements! But I know what I like in photographic art -- particularly street art.

  9. Yes, another sonnet, AOW, but this time a HYBRID. I'm not sure, but I may have invented a new sonnet form. We have the Shakespearean, the Italian or Petrarchian, which is the most flexible. and the Spenserian.

    The last is the most demanding of the three, because somewhat like the villanelle, only not quite so confining as that, it demands repetition of certain introductory rhymes in each group of four lines.

    As you know, I often write acrostic sonnets, but they may use any of the standard classic forms.

    This morning I just started writing in hopes of finding a subtle, circumspect, tomgue-in-cheek way of saying something profoundly crass and impolite. I had no idea it was gong to turn out to be a sonnet until I'd written six lines in iambic pentameter, and then I thought, "What the heck! Might as well go for the gold!" and VOILA! out came the funny little opus you see here.

    The rhyme scheme I devised almost by accident is this: aba, cbc, dbd, ebe, ff

    As far as I know, that division into groups of three lines, is exceedingly rare in the construction of sonnets, and might even be unique, though I rather doubt it. There's nothing new under the sun after all -- or we're told in Ecclesiastes.

    I've decided to call the new form an Anglo-Celtic-American Sonnet after the British part of my ethnic background. ;-)

    Doesn't that make it sound important?

  10. FT,
    You invented it, so you are entitled to naming rights.

  11. Even when he's trying to be nasty, FT rarely fails to amuse and lighten the burden of having to live with relentless, ubiquitous progressivism. My gratitude and admiration grows daily, FT. You are a true original.

    -----------> Katharine Heartburn

  12. Four tercets plus a couplet, reminds me of Frost's "Acquainted with the light."

    I have been one acquainted with the night.
    I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
    I have outwalked the furthest city light

    I have looked down the saddest city lane.
    I have passed by the watchman on his beat
    And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

    I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
    When far away an interrupted cry
    Came over houses from another street,

    But not to call me back or say good-by;
    and further still at an unearthly height
    One luminary clock against the sky

    Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
    I have been one acquainted with the night.

  13. I know that poem, Jez. It's one of Frost's lesser known works, but one of very high quality. I admire it's technical perfection.

    I don't now whether he thought of it as a sonnet, or not, but I think it qualifies, unless you're an absolute stickler for the use of quatrains.

    What might pass for a sonnet today among the "liberated" modern crowd is anybody's guess. Apparently, the only restriction left is that it be confined to fourteen lines, but, apparently, any rhyme scheme -- or complete lack thereof -- will do, and many omit capitalisation, even of proper names, and punctuation tends to be casual, improvisatory, "aliotoric," wildly inconsistent. or absent altogether.

    Frost's rhyme scheme -- aba, bcb, cdc, dad, aa -- is subtler and more complex than the pattern I arrived at almost inadvertently -- aba, cbc, dbd, ebe, ff -- for the jocular construction that came to me in a flash at dawn a couple of days ago.

    Frost was a great poet. I am merely skilled at writing verse, much of which too often lapses into doggerel. Fortunately, I do it primarily to amuse myself, and don't take it too seriously. What others may think concerns me not in the least, although it's always pleasant when someone responds positively, of course.

    The trouble with life is its extreme brevity. To explore even half the things that interest me in depth, I'd need at least seven-hundred years. A thousand would be better. And that says nothing at all for the many things that OUGHT to interest me. ;-)

  14. I'm part way through reading these ( which you may enjoy, despite lack of rhyme.

  15. Thank you for that, Jez. Rhyme, while I certainly appreciate it when meaningful and inventive, is hardly an essential component of poetry. Much prose is decidedly "poetic," so of course I'll be happy to look into the reference you provided -- as soon as I get some time.

    Robert Frost, as I'm sure you know, and my lifelong friend, Emily Dickinson, often wrote free verse, or lines with just the merest hint of rhyme -- or "near rhyme -- here and there.

    What truly matters, of course, is how well a piece conveys a specific, mood, atmosphere, character, imagery infused with meaning -- and the quality of all of that, of course.



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