This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2013-09-12 00:35:28 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Judgment Tarrieth

                                                                             For who will hearken unto you in this matter? but as his part is that                                                                               goeth down to the battle, so shall his part be that tarrieth by the stuff:                                                                               they shall part alike. 1 Sam. 30:24                                                                                                                                              he believed in the prosperity gospel,                                                                                       had a fat wallet from turning                                                                                       water into wine. the                                                                                        sun didn’t shine but he drave,                                                                                       and the moon lit his electric                                                                                       cigarette from a million                                                                                       miles away.                                                                                       i believe in the Word as written,                                                                                       thou shalt not, thou canst not, thou wilt not,                                                                                       my wallet as thin as a bookmark,                                                                                       my wine tasting like water                                                                                       (it is water)                                                                                       and the clouds on my mind.                                                                                        he’s rich, i’m alive.                                                                                       it’s the waiting that’s hell                                                                                       for me, it’s the dying                                                                                        that’s hell for him.                                                                                       so I wait.                                                                                       i see him everyday                                                                                        on the train, my battered                                                                                        kjv snarls at him                                                                                       and always falls                                                                                        open at psalm 73,                                                                                        or psalm 92,                                                                                       and I relive                                                                                       pre-christian                                                                                        sentiment,                                                                                       a bitter prophet.                                                                                       sunday.                                                                                        another i’m alone,                                                                                       another he’s hallelujah ridin’ high.                                                                                       monday.                                                                                       there he is on the platform.                                                                                        another morning, another coffee,                                                                                       another unfiltered Camel                                                                                       goes thru the needle                                                                                       of my eye,                                                                                       waiting to die.                                                                                       Christ keeps me alive.                                                                                       Christ golds his plate.                                                                                       we both wait.

Copyright © September 2013 Mark Steven Scheffer


This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2013-09-27 14:06:21
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
A very unqiue poem. I can not profess to understand who the rich one is. My fav line is My wallet is a thin as a bookmark.


This Poem was Critiqued By: James C. Horak On Date: 2013-09-26 13:49:30
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
I would assume a comparison between the moral, placing value upon more than money and the immoral, able to predicate everything on some conveniently abstracted "bottom line". Told through the eye and its penetration into telling details. We do wear what marks our substance, even daily. Even if it be the proverbial, Mark of the Beast. Baphomet to any celebrity musician, the 33rd degree handshake to any Mason. The Judgement thus becomes being held to our choices. Excellent poem with plenty to say and said in no redundant way. JCH
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